


Strike Balance

by AllValleyGirl



Category: Cobra Kai (Web Series), Karate Kid (Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-21
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-05-09 21:30:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 41,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14723930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllValleyGirl/pseuds/AllValleyGirl
Summary: Kreese takes it too far with Miguel, and Johnny finally admits he doesn't know how to fix things alone. A Cobra Kai Season 2 story. Third person limited POV. Updates every Wednesday. (Also posted on ff.net.)





	1. Coors Light

Disclaimer: I don't own The Karate Kid or Cobra Kai. I'm not making money from this. I'm just a fan.

 

Chapter One: 

Coors Light

 

“Hold that there,” Johnny demands, shoving the can of beer against Miguel’s face. He clenches his teeth at the sight of the shiner. Johnny’s seen a fair share of black eyes in his time, and this is gonna be a bad one. 

“I don’t need it.” Miguel limply pushes away the beer, but Johnny isn’t having it. He grabs his wrist, slams it down, and shoves the icy Coors Banquet against his eye again. Too exhausted to resist, Miguel curls his lip in a last-ditch attempt at defiance. Even pressed up against the wall, Johnny can see his legs shaking. It’s an effort for the kid to keep standing. 

To be honest, Johnny’s shocked Miguel _is_ still standing. Hawk had kneed him in the dick when he was down, cawing like some cheesy-ass raptor while he did it. The asshole. Johnny shudders at the image of the five Cobras circling in on Miguel, Kreese leaning into the action, his teeth bared in a malicious grin, egging them on. _Show the anchor baby who belongs here!_

The whole thing had been brutal. Not that Johnny hasn’t thought _anchor baby_ himself when the kid’s being all annoying and stuff, but with his grandma detained by ICE and Miguel obviously freaking out about it, it’s just… 

He doesn’t know what it is. 

He’d saved these loser kids – taught them how to defend themselves, how to be badass. And somehow, it’s exactly that badassery that’s turning them against him. Which shouldn’t be surprising, because that’s his life, isn’t it? One shitshow after the next. 

Kreese stole his dojo ‘cause of some bullshit legal mumbo-jumbo, and now he’s stealing his students. And the more Johnny tries to step in and stop the evil bastard from hurting his kids, the more it makes Johnny look like a wimp, and the less respect the kids give him. It’s a goddamn nightmare. 

Maybe Johnny is a wimp. He suppresses the memory of thick hands around his neck, his trophy snapped at his feet, the parking lot blurring, Bobby’s terrified protests blotting out as he struggled to breathe… 

But it isn’t about him right now. It’s about Miguel. 

With an expert strike, Johnny swipes the piles of paperwork off his desk, clearing the space in one go. “Sit your ass down and let me take a look at your injuries.” 

“I’m fine.” 

“Fine? Have you seen yourself? You’re so black I can’t even tell you’re Mexican.”

“I’m Ecuadorian.” 

“Whatever.” 

“Sensei Kreese is making me stronger,” Miguel says through clenched teeth. He hacked up a loogie and spit a dark red glob blood onto the desk. For the first time, Johnny notices his braces are gone. “The cops would do worse. I can take whatever he gives. I’m no pussy.” 

“No, you’re not.” Johnny sighs. He needs Miguel to understand, but he has no idea what to say to him. It’s rare Johnny wins a fight that isn’t fought with his fists. 

Kreese has been targeting Miguel since day one, to make a point to Johnny. A point about who’s boss. A point about how pathetic and soft Johnny actually is deep inside. Kreese hurts Miguel because he knows the boy means something to Johnny. Coors Light – Kreese’s derisive nickname is proof enough it isn’t about Miguel. 

Jesus. Maybe he is going soft. Maybe Kreese is right. He should stop worrying about protecting Miguel and let Miguel protect himself.

Thing is, Miguel _isn’t_ protecting himself. What do you do when your star pupil starts saying he “deserves” to get beat if he’s not strong enough to fight back? That he’s “lucky” to have Kreese teach him what it takes to be a man? There’s no getting through to Miguel, not after how he reacted when he found out Robby is his son. 

The closer Johnny gets to Robby, the worse things get between him and Miguel. 

“Listen, flaco.” It’s an insult he’s picked up from another Spanish-speaking student, and it seems to get Miguel’s attention, because his head shoots up in surprise. “Setting five students against one who’s already injured isn’t a fucking fair fight–” 

“Life doesn’t give you a fair fight,” Miguel interrupts. His voice cracks on the word fair. Johnny doesn’t know if he’s still going through puberty or if he’s about to cry. He sure as hell hopes it’s the boy’s balls dropping because he has no idea what to do with a crier. 

“No mercy, remember? Winning a stupid tournament against wimpy, entitled millennials is nothing compared to what’s out there in the real world.” 

There is an uncomfortable silence for a long time. Because what can Johnny say? Miguel is repeating back the lessons he’d taught him, only on steroids. And frankly it wouldn’t be surprising if Miguel were on steroids, too. 

“How’s your mom holding up?” 

“How do you think she is?” Miguel snaps. “She’s lost her mom. And she can’t even make rent now that they’ve taken Yaya–” He pounds his fist against the wall and let out a sharp gasp of pain. Johnny doesn’t blame him; Miguel’s knuckles are destroyed from training with that damn wooden mannequin. 

“I can cover your rent until–”

“I don’t need your help. When I win this fight, I’ll have enough to fix things. I’ll pay the rent. I’ll pay for a good lawyer–” 

“ _I’ll_ pay for a lawyer.” 

Miguel scoffs. “Like you could. You don’t even own Cobra Kai anymore. You’re an _employee_.” It’s hard to take the look of disgust coming off a kid who once idolized him. 

“Listen, Miguel. Just shut up and listen for once, okay? Whatever you need, I’ll take care of it. Shit, I’ll let you and your mom move in if it comes to that.” 

“You didn’t even raise your own son. Stop trying to raise me.” 

The little shit knows how to hit him where it hurts. He’ll teach him–

Miguel flinches. It’s the shock of that sight that pulls Johnny back to reality. His hand is curled in a fist, raised to strike. It had been so instinctual, he hadn’t even known he’d moved. He drops it to his side, his rage gone. 

Miguel was never a flincher, not even in the beginning. 

A flush is heating Miguel’s cheeks. He’s ashamed for that flash of fear. But Miguel isn’t the one who should be ashamed. He isn’t the full-grown man ready to beat the shit of a skinny kid who can barely stand.

“I’m sorry, sensei,” Miguel mumbles. He hasn’t called him sensei in weeks. “I didn’t mean it. I don’t know why I said that.” Before Johnny can see it coming and do something to stop it, tears are streaming down Miguel’s cheeks. 

Miguel is finally at his breaking point. Four months of being beaten and berated by Kreese, and Johnny’s the one to push him to the edge. Four months of bitter defiance and rage, and now the boy’s crumbling in a heap of self-loathing and shame. He’s turned the ruthlessness meant for his enemies on himself. 

Johnny knows those highs and lows all too well. 

“I’m sorry, sensei.” The kid is sobbing uncontrollably, and Johnny suddenly has a flashback to Robby as baby, wailing and wailing and there was nothing Johnny could do about it, no way to fix it, he was a failure as a parent– 

“Quiet!” 

Miguel nods in obedience, forcefully wiping the tears off his face, but he only cries harder, sucking in the air as if he were drowning. His legs buckle and the Coors falls out of his hand, but before his ass hits the floor, Johnny grabs him under his arms and pulls him up. 

“I don’t want you to see me like this,” Miguel says, words mushed together, snot streaming over his bloody mouth. His forehead lolls against Johnny’s shoulder. Johnny would be shocked if Miguel is back in full form in two months, he’s that bad off. 

How had he let things go this far? Johnny sweeps Miguel’s dark hair out of his eyes, trying to calm him down, even though he sucks at it. “It’s okay,” he says lamely. 

“I can’t handle it anymore,” Miguel chokes out. “I can’t. I just can’t do it. I’m nothing but a pussy quitter, and I’m so messed up I’ll never win the fight, and it will be all my fault when we can’t get Abuela back. I need you, sensei…” 

Christ. He needs another beer. No. He needs a bottle of whiskey. Beer isn’t gonna cut it tonight. 

“You’re not a pussy,” Johnny says. He pats his shoulder in an attempt to act fatherly. Miguel hisses in pain at the contact, but leans into it all the same. 

“You’re not a quitter,” Johnny says, voice low and authoritative. “You’re smart. You know when to walk away, ya hear me? You know when to ask for help.” 

“You never need to ask for help.” 

It hits him right in the gut. 

He should have asked for help months ago. He’d known he was in over his head but he refused to see it. And it is all his fault Miguel is crying like a wimp. It is all his fault Miguel will probably be pissing blood for a week after that jab to the kidney. None of this would have ever happened if hotshot Johnny Lawrence hadn’t been too damn proud to ask for help. 

Kreese had been a father to him, had toughened him up and straightened him out and beat him down – he’d been the only person Johnny had never been able to defeat, even counting LaRusso, because the never-ending oneupmanship between them is different. It’s equal. 

_No fear in this dojo_ – that’s bullshit. Whenever Kreese is around, all Johnny feels is fear. And the man knows it, no matter how well Johnny tries to hide it. 

There was one person in the world who had put Kreese in his place. One person who’d stepped in and saved Johnny from being choked to death in a parking lot. A little old oriental who Johnny never even liked. And that old man is dead. Miyagi. How could he forget the name when LaRusso named his lame-ass dojo after him? 

Even if Johnny hates Daniel LaRusso, even if the bad blood between them will always boil, LaRusso would do what the old man would’ve done. He’d help Johnny. He’d stand up to Kreese. Johnny doesn’t know how, but he would. That cocky, scrawny bastard always finds a way. It’s the Jersey in him. Johnny has to give the guy some credit, no matter how much he hates him. Robby told him it was LaRusso who encouraged him to start hanging out with dear ol’ dad again. 

Still…things have to be really bad to go to LaRusso for a favor. Johnny pulls Miguel off his shoulder and takes one last glance at him. At least the sobbing has stopped, but the kid is still…wet and red-nosed and bruised to a pulp and pathetic. Johnny doesn’t even want to rub it in as a joke. No crude humor is gonna fix this. 

He props Miguel up on the desk, ensures he’s stable enough to sit, and picks up the beer from the floor. He hands it over. “On your face.” 

“It’s not even cold anymore,” Miguel protests as he takes it. 

“So drink it.” 

Miguel gives him a quick glance to double-check for approval, pops the tab back, and the beer comes fizzing out over the top. He jerks his neck back and chugs it. When he’s done, he wipes off his mouth and gives Johnny a rueful smile. “You need to start buying craft beer. That stuff is rank.” 

“What do you know? You’re a teenager. I’m not gonna drink some girly shit nobody’s ever heard of. Coors is a man’s drink.” 

“And Coors Light?” Miguel asks, bitter. 

His hand is on Miguel’s shoulder again. It feels awkward, like a limp fish just resting there. “Coors Light is pretty okay.” 

It was the wrong thing to say, as usual, because Miguel’s eyes are getting all watery again. Miguel swallows; Johnny can see the kid’s Adam’s apple bob up and down. “Thanks, sensei.” 

Johnny clenches his teeth. His throat is tight but it’s probably just a cold or something dumb like that. Allergies or whatever. Not that he’s pussy enough to get allergies. “Come on kid, let’s get you to my car.” 

“We going home?” 

He’s tempted to say yes. He’s tempted to slink back into his apartment, quit Cobra Kai, and forget any of this ever happened. It’s more enticing than the alternative. Johnny imagines LaRusso’s smug face as he begs for help. He feels like a dog exposing its belly. A loser. 

And then he thinks of Miguel, calling him sensei. He thinks of Miguel limp in his arms after the Halloween dance, when he promised himself never to let him down again. He thinks of Robby, reining in his recklessness, finding it in himself to forgive his deadbeat dad for checking out on him. Robby, showing up on Saturdays to watch action flicks and shoot the shit. Robby, slowly, slowly learning to trust him. Miguel, who already does… 

He isn’t going to let those boys down. 

“No.” Johnny squeezes Miguel’s shoulder and helps him to his feet. “We’re not going home. We’re going to fight back.” 


	2. History Repeats Itself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Johnny comes to him to ask for help with Kreese, Daniel’s assumptions are challenged. Daniel’s POV, third person limited.

 

_History repeats itself, try and you’ll succeed!_

_-You’re the Best, Joe Esposito_

 

It’s storming and Daniel’s sitting cross-legged in the living room, relaxing with a cup of matcha. He likes the sound of the warm California rain hitting the red clay tiles of his Encino hacienda. He takes in the comfort of the tall stucco walls surrounding him, the security that his home is _his_ , that he will provide for his kids and his wife no matter what. Not that Amanda needs providing for. That’s comforting, too. 

It’s cluttered though, in a way it wasn’t five years ago. Less peaceful. They’ve been too busy to properly care for their home. Daniel used to clean in his free time. He liked it, washing the windows rhythmically, sweeping the wide, open wood floors in the manner Mr. Miyagi taught him. Ironic, considering how he’d complained about it as a teen. But he hasn’t had a chance to clean in a long time. Or maybe he hasn’t made it a priority. They hire a housekeeper twice a week, an elderly Hispanic woman who doesn’t speak a lick of English. They hire out for lawn work and small household repairs. They order takeout more often than they should. It’s not something he’s proud of.

He’s actually alone for once. Amanda’s picking up Anthony from a friend’s house, and Sam and Robby are in the home dojo practicing. (He’s not going to think too hard about what they’re practicing.) 

It’s rare he gets a quiet moment to himself these days. When he’s not running the dealership or running his household, trying to bond with a son who’s not interested, trying to understand a daughter who, despite being interested again, is going through all the teenage hormones and hysterics that make fatherhood impossible, when he’s not trying to sneak a moment alone with Amanda, he’s at the dojo, trying to save kids from an influence that should have been put to rest in 1985. 

With Kreese back running Cobra Kai, all his worst suspicions about Johnny have proven true. 

He’s thought about Mr. Miyagi often lately. Maybe more often than is healthy to reflect on the past. But he’s always gone back to his old mentor whenever anything in his life gets confusing. He thought he’d found stability, a sense of balance. He’d thought he’d become a good man, the type of man Mr. Miyagi would be proud of. And then Johnny Lawrence had to show up at LaRusso Auto, a ghost from his past. Or skeleton, more like. And with the slightest, immature temptation in that graffiti, Daniel had given into his old, stubborn, hotheaded ways. The same reckless self-destruction that drove a friendless, skinny kid to dump ice-cold water on his bullies unprovoked came out in a man who used his social influence to get the rent raised on a entire strip mall as a petty comeback for his childhood bully. 

Now that Daniel’s had time to cool off, he sees it was exactly the sort of stunt he’d expect those blond, rich, Cobra Kai kids’ banker daddies to pull on weekends for fun back in the ‘80s. 

Sometimes it scared him; like maybe he’d become indistinguishable from his privileged SoCal trust fund peers at the country club, like maybe there was none of the scrappy Newark Italian boy left in him. All these years, he’s been so obsessed with building comfort and security for his family that he hadn’t considered what could be lost. He never wanted his kids to have to up and move across the country in their formative years, or live in a broken-down apartment, or wear secondhand clothes, or grow up without a dad, or worry about getting jumped by rich kids whose wealth shelters them from consequences. And now he wonders if a little struggle and discipline would’ve been good for them. If Anthony would be less attached to his screen, if Sam would have been a kinder friend to Aisha. Neither of them really respect him. 

He doesn’t have all the answers, but if there’s one thing he does know, it’s karate. It’s the peace and contemplation found in the kata, the love between a student and his sensei, the self-worth that can be built in blocks and kicks and the knoweldge that because you can defend yourself, you might never have to. Karate is the family you create, the family that goes deeper than blood ties. 

He isn’t going to give into his old self again. Miyagi-do is proof enough. Robby is proof enough. Daniel’s given his students a haven, just like Mr. Miyagi gave him when he needed it most. 

Daniel blinks as headlights pierce the fog and illuminate the rain. Tires screech to a halt on his driveway – the sharp stop of anger or desperation, or both. 

_Not now._ Daniel huffs in annoyance, places his teacup on the coffee table where it rattles, and heads to the door. He cracks it open to the sight of Johnny’s fist raised, ready to knock, and blanches for a second at old memories when Johnny’s fist was raised for an entirely different reason. Johnny’s supporting his student with his other arm – Miguel, the one who was an asshole to Daniel’s little girl. But now is not the time to pull the protective father act, because the boy looks beaten within an inch of his life, his bloody shirt tied around him as a makeshift bandage, and the terror on Johnny’s face sends chills down Daniel’s spine. He opens the door wide and steps aside to let them in. 

“We need to talk,” Johnny says. 

No shit. 

“Here,” Daniel says, taking command of the situation, not even questioning why Johnny has come to him, of all people. “Let’s get him on the sofa.” He supports the injured kid at the opposite shoulder and the two rivals assist him in surprisingly easy tandem to the other side of the room. They’re helping Miguel lie down when footsteps pound in from behind. 

“That’s my dad’s car!” Robby’s shouting between huffs of breath. “What’s going on?” 

And Daniel knows exactly when they enter the room because Robby says, “Dad?” in a quiet, worried voice, and Sam cries, “Oh my God, Miguel!” 

Daniel and Johnny turn instinctually to their kids. 

Sam’s hand is covering her mouth. She steps toward them but Robby puts his hand on her wrist and she hesitates. “Is Miguel okay?” she asks, voice pitched high with worry. 

“He’ll live,” Johnny answers. 

“What happened?” Robby asks. 

Johnny hesitates, ashamed. “Kreese got carried away.” 

Daniel takes a deep breath. His daughter doesn’t need to see this. She doesn’t need to hear it. This is exactly the sort of thing he’s spent the last sixteen years protecting her from. “Sam, go up to your room.”

“No way, dad! Look at him, we need to call an ambulance, I can’t just leave him here –”

“Listen to your dad,” Miguel cuts in. 

_So maybe the kid’s not all bad_ , Daniel thinks sarcastically. 

“But Miguel’s hurt –”

“Sam. go. a. way,” Miguel growls. He’s not looking at the other kids. He’s looking at the ceiling. Daniel can tell he’s trying to sound tough, but his voice sounds as scratchy and pained as his body looks. It’s pretty obvious he was recently crying. Daniel thinks about how he would feel at that age, if Ali saw him beaten down after she’d broken up with him. It’s been a long time since he was a teenager, but not so long he can’t remember how it feels. 

“Sweetheart, you should really go,” Daniel says gently. Sam’s teary-eyed, but she nods. “Robby, you too.” 

“No,” Johnny cuts in, glaring at him. For a second, Daniel had forgotten Robby was Johnny’s son. That Daniel wasn’t the only one who called the shots when it came to Robby. 

“Robby,” Johnny’s voice drops, and it’s almost pleading, “I need you to look after Miguel while I talk to your sensei.” 

And even if Daniel couldn’t have guessed with everything else, the stern, respectful way Johnny says _sensei_ is all the evidence he needs to know they’re in deep shit. 

“No –” Miguel whines. “I’m fine –” 

“Miguel, shut up.” Daniel would never talk to one of his students so dismissively, but it gets the job done because Miguel just grumbles, “whatever,” and Johnny barks, “whatever, what?” and Miguel says, “whatever, sensei,” without the attitude, and maybe even a little affection. 

Robby’s eyes shift to Daniel for approval. He won’t obey his dad unless Daniel gives it the okay. Daniel nods. Daniel knows the exchange doesn’t go unnoticed by Johnny. 

“Let’s discuss this in the home dojo,” Daniel says, and he finds his hand on Johnny’s shoulder, guiding him as the man forcefully pulls his eyes off his son and his student.

 

* * *

 

“You got any booze back here?” Johnny asks. 

Daniel gives him an incredulous look. “No.” 

Johnny’s arms are crossed and his chin is tilted up. Typical macho posturing. He’s not even willing to start the conversation. Daniel rolls his eyes. “Just tell me why you’re here.” 

“Why the fuck do you think I’m here?” Johnny snaps. “Think I’m dropping by for a goddamn tea party? Did you see that kid?” 

“What does it have to do with me?” Daniel snaps right back. 

“You know what? Never mind. I thought you’d get it, but it turns out, you care more about seeing me beg than helping a hurt kid. So have fun gloating –” Johnny storms away but before he can reach the door Daniel grabs his arm. 

“Look, Johnny, I’m sorry. I lost my cool. Okay? Something about you, man, it brings out the worst in me.” Daniel drops his arm. 

Johnny clenches his teeth. “I know the feeling.” 

“Just…” Daniel pauses, trying to catch his breath, trying to find his calm, “just tell me what happened.” 

Johnny pulls his hand through his hair. It’s still those same thick blond waves girls loved and Daniel envied back in the day. Back when he thought he’d never live up to blue-eyed, all-American rich kid, Johnny Lawerence. The perfect popular boy with the big house in Encino. It’s crazy how time changes things so drastically and somehow doesn’t change anything at all. 

“It’s Kreese, man.” Johnny swallows. Paces the room. His anxiety is catching and Daniel feels the need to pace himself. “I knew something like this would happen. I _knew_ it. But I told myself if I stayed on as a teacher, I could keep the old man in check. I could look out for the kids, maybe balance his lessons. I couldn’t just leave them…” 

“Johnny, what are you talking about?” 

“Did you think I actually wanted Kreese back after what he did to me? Do you think I wanted him touching my students?” 

Daniel presses his lips together, uncomfortable. 

“Jesus Christ, you did.” 

“What was I supposed to think?” Daniel says, defensive. “When you show up to Miyagi-do with him at your side to harass me and my students? When he brags about running Cobra Kai again?”

“It wasn’t like that.” 

“Then what was it like?” 

Johnny makes an exasperated, violent sweep of his arms into the air, as if to shout, _What do you want from me?_

Daniel waits. He even manages to keep from giving the man a dirty look. 

“Kreese and some other douche, Silver or Gold or some shit like that, apparently own the Cobra Kai name and logo. He threatened to sue me and take the dojo by force if I didn’t give him ownership.

“I built the new Cobra Kai from scratch. It wasn’t even his to take. We were nothing like the old Cobra Kai. I mean, I didn’t keep the bad shit. I kept the good stuff. Like the kick-ass snake. I know you’ll never see it ‘cause you’re so damn self righteous, but my kids were being bullied, and I was teaching them to defend themselves –”

Daniel’s proud of his self-restraint when he doesn’t snort. Johnny’s more delusional than he’d realized. Did he even see how his students acted at the tournament? _They_ were the bullies. 

“I even got a lawyer,” Johnny says, “and I know he’s a good one ‘cause he’s a Jew–”

Daniel decides not to comment. 

“– and he said even if I changed the name I didn’t have a leg to stand on.” Johnny pauses and gives him a smug look. “No pun intended.” 

Daniel thinks of Kreese and _sweep the leg_ and he does snort this time around. 

Johnny crosses his arms again. “The point is, Kreese left me with no choice. Either I sign over Cobra Kai and continue as an employee, or he takes the dojo. I couldn’t just leave the kids to him, now could I?” 

“Jesus,” Daniel says. It warrants more than that, but it’s so overwhelming there’s nothing else to say. 

As usual, he’d been so blind. And Johnny was right. He had a self-righteous streak, he knew he did, but he could never stop himself in the midst of a crusade. He’d been so pissed at Cobra Kai’s unsportsmanlike behavior at the tournament, so disgusted about the way Johnny egged his kids into brutalizing his own son, that Daniel hadn’t even paused to consider how strange it was that Johnny would let Kreese back into his life. He’d assumed the worst and looked for nothing but confirmation. 

And it was just like Kreese to use some slimy, back-handed way of getting what he wanted. Kreese didn’t need punches and kicks to take someone down. He liked to do it psychologically just as well. The man was a psycho. This was Silver manipulating Daniel away from the guidance of Mr. Miyagi all over again. Only this time, Miguel and the other kids were victims. And Johnny, like Mr. Miyagi, could do nothing but stand by and watch. 

_Hope confusion end soon, Daniel-san. Miyagi heart empty without you._

Daniel feels sick to his stomach. Johnny’s a jerk, and Daniel won’t ever agree with his teaching methods, but no one deserves that.

“So he beat up your favorite student,” Daniel says quietly. “Just to rub it in.” 

“Worse.” Johnny pauses. “He instigated my other students into doing his dirty work.” 

“Jesus,” Daniel repeats. He crosses his arms over his stomach, doing nothing to hide his revulsion. He doesn’t want to imagine it, but it’s easy. It’s easy because he’s been there.

“Miguel, man –” Johnny’s breath catches and it sounds like he’s going to cry. Maybe Daniel should have gotten him that drink. Then again, he’s not going to enable an addict now he knows the man’s an alcoholic. 

“I know you only think of Miguel as the tough guy at the tournament, and I get it, he was ruthless. I should have taught him you fight different on the mat than on street. I know that now, okay? But I was so focused on helping him kick his bullies’ asses, because that’s what he needed. He’s, he’s…you should’ve seen him when he first came to me. A skinny little virgin dweeb. A complete dork, all worried about asthma and political correctness and shit. Your typical wimp.” 

There’s so much wrong with everything Johnny’s saying, but despite that, Daniel can get to the heart beneath Johnny’s words, that coil of affection he won’t fully express. He cares about Miguel. And frankly, it’s kind of shocking to discover Johnny’s version of Miguel: a bullied underdog with a heart of gold. All this time, Daniel had only ever envisioned the Miguel of the tournament: a jerk with too much power who fought dirty. 

“I taught him how to stand up for himself. I taught him not to take anybody’s shit. I taught him to be a man. And Kreese had to come along and undermine everything. Reinforcing the harshest shit meant only for extreme situations, tearing Miguel down, turning my students against each other. Man, you should see Hawk. He’s unrecognizable. And not that in that cool, alpha way anymore. He’s a monster. 

“Kreese screwed with Miguel so badly that he’d take any abuse just to prove himself. It makes me sick, man. Sick. You saw what he looks like.” Johnny gestures sharply to the door. “That’s what it took to knock some sense into him. That’s how far it had to go before Miguel accepted my help.” 

“It went pretty damn far for me, too,” Daniel admits. 

“What are you talking about?” 

This time, it’s Johnny who asks. 

 

* * *

 

They’re sitting side by side on the floor of his home dojo. Daniel’s crosslegged with his elbows resting on his knees, as if his meditative pose could make the situation any better. He feels the start of a migraine pulsing at his temples. He’s drained. He’s just opened up to Johnny about the darkest period in his life, told his supposed enemy things he’s never told anyone but Amanda. His shoulders are tense and he tries to keep a sharp awareness of his breath and body, anything to distract himself from how vulnerable he feels. 

They’re quiet for a long time, until Johnny says, “I’m sorry that happened to you, man. That’s screwed up.” 

“I’m sorry it’s happening to you.” 

“Yeah,” Johnny says. And he sounds defeated. “Look, I don’t even know why I came to you. This isn’t your problem –”

“Oh yeah it is,” Daniel interrupts. “Why do you think I opened Miyagi-do? I’m not going to let Cobra Kai take over the Valley ever again. I’m glad you came to me.” 

“There was nothing wrong with Cobra Kai when it was mine,” Johnny cuts in, ready for a fight. 

Daniel lets that one slide, and they slip back into almost companionable quiet. 

“So what are we gonna do?” Johnny asks eventually. “I mean, I’d’ve beaten up him up already if that would solve the problem – he’s old, I can take him – but he’s brought the law into things like a pansy. And he’s turned the kids against me. The ones who are left, at least.” 

Across the room, from a framed black-and-white photograph, Mr. Miyagi gazes down on them, proud and wise. Daniel stares at the image, longing for the days when all he had to do was turn to him to find his way. Now, he has to search within himself. There’s no one there to tell him right from wrong and it’s _hard_. It’s damn hard. 

“What if you quit Cobra Kai and worked with me?” It’s quiet, uncertain. 

Johnny stares at him. A little annoyed, not comprehending. “I mean, I know a lot about cars. And yeah, it’d be better than being unemployed, but I can’t just leave the kids to Kreese. The man tried to kill me and he could’ve gotten Miguel killed tonight. What kind of monster do you think I am?” 

“No. I don’t mean at the autoshop. I mean at Miyagi-do.” Johnny’s stare widens, and Daniel rushes in, talking too fast as his crazy idea forms more quickly than his words. “I’m spread too thin as it is, trying to run LaRusso Auto and the dojo at the same time. With you at my side, we could teach more kids, more classes. You’d be doing me a favor. And you could talk to your students, bring them over to a place where Kreese has no influence. If it comes down to it, I’ll get a restraining order so he can’t get anywhere near the dojo.” 

“I don’t know, man…” 

But Daniel can hear Johnny’s resistance waning already. He likes the idea. Weirdly enough, it’s starting to grow on Daniel, too. 

“It’d be great. Think about it,” Daniel says in his best car salesman voice. “I only have eight students. I can’t take on more with my other responsibilities. You’ll bring in a lot more students, I own the property and pay the bills, and we can split profit fifty-fifty. Sounds fair, yeah? I’ll focus my training on kata, meditation, and conditioning, and you can work with the kids on advanced defense and combat techniques.” Daniel shrugs. “I like the slower stuff anyway. More my style.” 

Johnny gives him a smug look. Daniel knows he’s using all his self restraint from blurting out _bitch_ or _pansy_ or some other emasculating insult. 

“Let’s just get one thing straight, though,” Daniel adds. 

“I knew there was a catch.” 

“None of this _strike first, strike hard, no mercy_ crap.” Johnny opens his mouth to interrupt and Daniel holds out a hand for silence. “No. At Miyagi-do, we follow the philosophy of Mr. Miyagi. And that means fighting is only ever a last resort. It is only ever used as self-defense. We don’t strike first. Our karate is a way of life. It’s not some flashy sport that we show off at tournaments to win a plastic trophy.” 

“Yeah, it’s a gimmick you use to sell cars.” 

Daniel reddens at that and his chest tightens. “It’s not a gimmick,” he says through clenched teeth. 

“Sure looks like a gimmick. And you’re gonna have trouble keeping students if you don’t take them to tournaments and demonstrations,” Johnny pushes. “Boys need an outlet for their aggression. And parents want to see what they’re paying for. They want real results.” 

Daniel huffs. “I’ll think about tournaments. So long as you stick to the principle of self-defense. We don’t strike first.” 

“Fine. Whatever.” Johnny’s not happy about it, but he at least agrees to it. “But don’t expect me to use your pussy, pushover methods with my students.” 

“ _Our_ students,” Daniel says. 

“Our students,” Johnny agrees. 

“And my methods aren’t pussy.” 

“They’re absolutely pussy. Shit man, you need to lay down the law. Do you see how your own children talk back to you? They’ve got no respect.” 

Daniel clenches his teeth, biting back a retort. He knows he’s largely angry because Johnny has a point, even if he’s doing a crude job of making it. Daniel lets Sam and Anthony walk all over him. But he’s not going to take parenting advice from a dad who abandoned his son. Or at least he’s not going to admit to considering it. 

“I was pretty impressed with the respect Miguel showed you back there in the living room,” he says begrudgingly. “But that language. You’re gonna have to work on it. You can’t curse in the dojo. I don’t like the sexism, either. That doesn’t fly with kids these days. They’re smarter than we were.” 

“I’m not one for censorship.” 

Daniel rolls his eyes. He hops to his feet, swipes off the front of his trousers. “You’re not one for filters, more like.” 

Johnny jumps up too and smirks. “Maybe.” 

Daniel holds out his hand. “We got a deal, Sensei Lawrence?” 

Johnny takes it and gives it a rough shake. “Deal, Sensei LaRusso.” 

They stare at each other for a moment, hands still clasped together, and Johnny’s face splits into a grin. Daniel’s does, too. 

“We’re gonna take that bastard down,” Johnny says. “He’s never gonna hurt another kid in the Valley as long as we’re alive.” 

“Damn right.”

Johnny gives him a rough, approving pat on the back. 

As Johnny walks out the door, Daniel shakes his head, astonished with himself. Johnny Lawrence and Daniel LaRusso, working together after all this time, after thirty-five years of grief between them. 

Maybe it’s the worst idea he’s ever had, but somehow it feels right. 


	3. The Enemy of My Enemy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Daniel and Johnny discuss the situation with Kreese, Robby is left alone with an injured Miguel. Robby’s POV, third person limited.

Robby paces the floor, practicing his breathing exercises as he tries not to look in Miguel’s direction. He’d give anything to be hidden away with Sam in her room right now, but of course his dad had to go and ask him for a favor. And as much as he doesn’t care about Miguel, or what his dad wants from him, Robby’s staying largely because Mr. LaRusso gave him the go-ahead. 

So now Robby’s stuck looking after the jerk.

_In with your nose. Out with your mouth. In with your nose. Out with your mouth._

Yeah, that’s not gonna cut it right now. 

Robby’s eyes shift to Miguel on the sofa, who smells like cheap beer and blood. He looks worse than he smells. There’s a split second of satisfaction in seeing his cutthroat rival defeated. Robby has to admit it feels good to see how much better shape he’s in – Miguel’s way scrawnier than he’d looked in his gi at the All Valley. 

But that second is short, because Miguel shifts and just beneath those visible ribs is a black and blue expanse across his lower back, right at the kidneys. Robby winces. The eye and ribs look bad enough, but _that_ , well, that probably deserves a hospital visit. 

Yeah, Miguel’s a bully who drunkenly hit Sam, snapped his arm, targeted his injured shoulder, and nearly disabled him all to win a local kid’s karate tournament, but Robby wouldn’t wish this on his worst enemy. Which, all things considered, Miguel probably is. 

“Need anything?” Robby asks uncomfortably. 

Miguel somehow manages to glare fairly threateningly despite the fact his eye is swollen shut. “Not from you.” 

“Right.” Robby huffs in frustration and leaves the room. He comes back with Advil and three frozen vegan meals that he’s wrapped in hand towels (Amanda’s a real health nut even if she never cooks), and hands the meals over. 

Miguel nods without saying thank you. He presses one to his face, one to his lower back, and one to his crotch. Robby grimaces at that last one as Miguel lets out a deep sigh of relief. 

He props himself up on the arm rest of the sofa near Miguel’s feet and hunches his shoulders, trying to figure out what to say. He wonders what his dad is telling Mr. LaRusso right now. 

Miguel is shifting around, and Robby is very deliberately not looking at him. It turns out he doesn’t have to say anything because Miguel speaks first. 

“Your phone.” 

“What?” 

“Can I borrow your phone?” he asks through clenched teeth. “I must’ve left mine at the dojo.” 

Robby nods. He opens the screen with his touch ID and tosses the phone to Miguel, who catches it one hand. No way he’s giving out his password. He’s been involved in too many cons to make a dumb move like that. 

“Mama,” Miguel says, and slips into Spanish. 

Robby took up to Spanish Three before dropping out, but he can’t make out much of the conversation, Miguel’s speaking so fast. He hears _sensei_ and _dormir_ (sleep, a word he knows) and assumes he must be telling her he’s staying the night at his dad’s. 

Robby tells himself he doesn’t care how often Miguel stays at his dad’s but that’ a lie. His dad always managed to forget the weekends he had custody. 

Miguel’s voice is sweet and affectionate. He’s forcing himself to sound cheery despite his miserable condition, and even though he’s talking to his mom, Robby didn’t expect him to sound so…nice. Miguel hangs up with a _te amo_ and tosses back the phone, grimacing at even that little bit of motion. 

Robby must be staring because Miguel narrows his eyes at him. Or eye. “What? I don’t want her to worry.” 

And that’s another thing Miguel’s got that he hasn’t. Robby’s mom wouldn’t notice if he went missing for a week. He feels a flash of guilt for even thinking that, because at least she’s nice when she is around. But it’s true. 

Miguel stares up at the ceiling and Robby stares down at his hightops. “So what happened?” 

Miguel shrugs. “You heard. Kreese set the other Cobras on me after I twisted my ankle. There’s not much more to it than that.” 

“That’s messed up.” 

“It was supposed to teach me a lesson about fighting in the real world.” He sounds defeated. 

“Some lesson,” Robby scoffs. “A lesson in what an abusive asshole Kreese is, more like it. I can’t believe my dad let him do that to you.” 

Actually, that’s a lie too. It was just like his dad not to step up when someone relied on him. He couldn’t handle having a kid, so he just noped out when Robby needed him most. He let Robby’s mom take him without a fight. Robby can’t count the number of promises he’s broken, the number of times he’s looked for him in a crowd before he gave up. His dad’s missed soccer games, his 8th grade graduation, the photo session before freshman formal… Whenever the man did bother to show up, he’d act like a buddy-buddy punch on the shoulder made up for all the times he’d ignored him. It’s not surprising that now that he’s found some replacement kid, he’s failed him, too. 

Even if his dad is finally trying, one day, he’ll stop caring about him again. Robby wishes he could be like that – just stop caring whenever he wanted to. But no matter what his dad does, he still loves him. It doesn’t make sense. They don’t have anything in common. His dad’s idea of “bonding” is drinking shitty beer and watching action movies that were corny when they were released thirty years ago. The man’s a macho, deadbeat loser stuck in the ‘80s, who still thinks nothing tops a Farah Fawcett haircut and it’s totally okay to use black as a noun.

And still, Robby hates Miguel for replacing him.

Miguel glowers. “Leave Sensei Lawrence out of it. He’s been trying to get me to see straight for weeks, only I wasn’t listening.” He pauses, uncomfortable. “I thought Kreese was toughening me up, but it turns out, he’s just kind of a messed up person.” 

Robby remembers Mr. LaRusso’s words from the tournament. _There is no such thing as a bad student. Only a bad teacher. And your father had the worst…_

He hadn’t been exaggerating. Robby can see for himself what a horrible influence that man is. Four days ago, when Robby stopped by, he was stuck cleaning up vomit off his dad’s toilet bowl and putting the old man to bed. 

Robby wonders, not for the first time, what would have happened if his dad had been taken under Mr. Miyagi’s wing instead of Kreese’s. Robby thinks about how he’s changed this past year under Mr. LaRusso’s tutelage. He used to be so angry all the time. So angry that he couldn’t think straight, like nothing else existed but his rage. All he cared about was getting back at his dad. In retrospect, even hanging out with those thugs and dropping out of school and stealing was some convoluted attempt at getting back at his dad. But it never worked. Afterwards, he’d felt empty and guilty, and it never gave him the satisfaction he’d been hoping for. 

Robby hadn’t even known he’d been walking around with so much hate inside until he discovered moments where it was gone, where its absence literally changed his body. The tension he constantly held in his gut eased up, and he realized he was always getting cavities because he had a habit of grinding his teeth when he was overwhelmed. He wouldn’t have recognized his own stress if Mr. LaRusso hadn’t taught him to clear his mind. 

Mr. LaRusso had taught him to understand things he’d never noticed before. Hippie stuff, like listening to the sound of the songbirds and taking in the scent of the trees and finding a place of quiet when everything around you was stressing you out and pressing you in. Maybe it was cheesy, but it worked. 

His dad sure as hell could use some of that zen, but he was too much of a dick to give it credence. 

“His methods are obviously unhelpful.” Miguel gestures to his injuries. “Not that I couldn’t take it.” 

“I couldn’t take it,” Robby admits with a shrug. He doesn’t need to prove anything to Miguel. 

The corner of Miguel’s lip curls up in a cocky grin. Robby doesn’t know what Sam saw in him, or that asshole Kyler, either. Miguel’s back to wincing in a second, though. Robby uncaps the bottle of Advil he’d forgotten on the coffee table and hands Miguel six. 

“Thanks.” And for a moment Robby’s pleasantly surprised until –

“But don’t think this settles things between us. You stole my girl.” 

“Yeah, well, you stole my dad.” 

It comes out before he can stop it. He hates how immature he sounds, and he knows better. Robby used to think balance was about evening the score. It’s not. It’s about finding peace inside yourself despite the score. But just because Robby knows better now, doesn’t mean it’s easy to change old habits.

“I didn’t even know he had a kid. You and sensei – that has nothing to do with me. I’m not exactly happy about the situation, either.”

It was a fair point. He can admit what Miguel is saying is rational, but his feelings are anything but. So Robby changes the subject. 

“Just so you know, Sam never cheated on you.” 

“Sure.” Miguel practically snarls. “That’s why she ghosted me and showed up to the party holding your hand. She was too ashamed of me to even tell her dad we were dating. And she didn’t even let me apologize for accidentally hitting her. Which was an _accident_ ,” he emphasizes, as if Robby were about to argue. 

“She didn’t text you for _one day_ because she was grounded. And she felt guilty about not telling her family about you. She was about to apologize for that, but you never let her. 

“The handholding, though, that was my doing. You’re right. I was moving in on your girl. I told myself I was just being friendly when I knew I wasn’t, and Sam was naive about it. That’s on me.” 

“Damn right it’s on you. But I guess you got what you wanted, didn’t you? You guys have been kissing all over instagram for months. Don’t think I don’t know.” 

Robby rolls his eyes. There was one instagram kiss. And it was on the cheek. 

He’s liked Sam since the moment he saw her. There’s an innocence about her – a girl who’s never had to worry about being evicted, or whether her dad will remember her birthday, or what kind of man her mom’s coming home with that night. 

Sam’s lived the sort of existence that Robby didn’t even dream about, didn’t think existed outside of dated sitcoms: loving, involved parents; a huge, comfy house; great grades; beautiful; funny and soft… He thinks somehow her sweet smiles and corny jokes can wash away the grime of his past. It’s not even about Sam. He likes Sam, sure. But it’s about more than Sam. It’s about being a part of the LaRusso family. 

Miguel snaps him back to the present. 

“Whatever, it doesn’t matter anymore. I’ve got bigger fish to fry.” 

“Looks like we all do,” Robby says with a sigh. 

“Kreese has nothing to do with you.” 

“Um…he basically abused my dad and tried to kill him when he was our age. He stole my dad’s dojo and bullied his students. Yeah, nothing to do with me at all.” 

“You know what I mean.” 

“No, I don’t. Are you saying what happens to my dad shouldn’t matter to me?”

“I’m saying you’re not the one lying on your enemy’s sofa beaten half to death.” 

“You’re not my enemy.” 

He realizes its true the moment he says it. His anger toward Miguel is hard to let go. He tries when he prunes the bonsais, and sometimes it works. But it flares too, when his dad only mentions the boy’s name. 

But _enemy_? This isn’t The Terminator. They’re suburban sports rivals. He’s thought _enemy_ before, but he knows deep down it’s more nuanced than that. 

He wishes he hadn’t had to see Miguel like this, broken physically and emotionally. He wishes he never had to hear him saying sweet things to his mom over the phone. He wishes Miguel would stay the ruthless bad guy at the tournament. Some vague, bullying figure in the background of his life that enough karate training could defeat. 

It would be so much easier if Miguel were just a villain. Hell, it would be easier if his dad were just a villain. If life were that black and white, he wouldn’t have to forgive, or empathize, or examine his part in things. But you can be a villain and a victim and a victor all at the same time. The All Valley Tournament proved that much to him last spring. 

He sighs. “I doubt Mr. LaRusso will even let us get involved. He’ll probably want to handle this himself. He gets pretty protective.” 

“Fuck that noise.” Miguel sits up sharply. He groans, but he doesn’t lie back down. There’s a vigor in him that Robby respects. 

“No one’s keeping me from the fight,” Miguel says, words muffled because his teeth are clenched in pain. “I’ve been so stupid to fall for Kreese’s shit, but I’m done with it. We’re going to give the old man what he deserves, and I’m going to be right at Sensei Lawrence’s side.” 

Miguel makes a fist when he speaks, and he speaks forcefully. Even Robby feels empowered by it. 

“Well, if you think I’m going to let Mr. LaRusso keep me out of the action,” Robby says, “you’re wrong about that. I’m right there with you. This is my fight too. We have to have my dad’s back.” 

“Don’t worry, I do.” 

“Me too.” 

There’s a tense moment between them, and Robby can feel their rivalry shift into something almost like teamwork. You don’t have to like the members of your team. You don’t have to be friends. You just have to respect them. Trust them. He can’t trust Miguel as far as he can throw him, but he can trust him with his dad. 

“Look,” says Robby, handing him an olive branch, “I’ll keep you informed of anything I find out. We can’t go about this blindly. We need to do this the right way.” 

Miguel nods, sharp and decisive. “All right. Same for me. I’ll give you my number. I suppose I can admit you’re not entirely evil,” he adds dryly to ease the tension. Even if Robby can tell he’s half serious. 

“Thanks for the ringing endorsement.” 

Miguel snorts and it turns into a laugh. Robby laughs too. He starts texting Miguel’s number with, _Hey, it’s your mortal enemy Robby. What’s up?_ Even though it’s not true anymore, if it ever was. 

He still doesn’t like the bastard, though. 

 

o - o - o - o - o 

 

TBC. If you enjoyed the read, please review! Constructive criticism is also welcome. Chapter Four, _Empty Hands_ (Miguel's POV), is coming out next Wednesday!


	4. Empty Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miguel finds out the truth about his father. Miguel’s POV, third person limited. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own The Karate Kid or Cobra Kai. I'm not making money from this. I'm just a fan.

 

_In Okinawa, all Miyagi know two things: fish and karate. Karate come from China, sixteenth century, called te, “hand.” Hundred year later, Miyagi ancestor bring to Okinawa, call karate, “empty hand.”_

_\- Mr. Miyagi, The Karate Kid_

 

The comforting scent of arroz con pollo and sweet plantains is thickening in the kitchen, and so is the smoke. Miguel quickly takes the pan off the stovetop before he burns the plantains and ruins dinner. It smells good, but not as good as his Yaya makes it. He’s not sure he’s even made it right. She never taught him exactly, but he’s spent enough evenings hanging out with her in the kitchen that he picked it up naturally. 

Miguel paces the floor a few times as the dish cools down. On second thought, no matter how delicious the smell, he starts regretting his decision to cook dinner. It reminds him of her, and even that reminder tightens his chest, but he won’t let himself cry. He needs her, but right now, she needs him. Wherever she is, locked in that detention center, she needs him to be a man and hold it together. She needs him to take care of his mama. He’s going to make her proud of how he managed things when she gets home. 

He still can’t believe it happened. It feels more like a nightmare than reality. Someone had called the police and tipped them off that Yaya was selling drugs. His Yaya. A _drug dealer_. Of all things. How can people be so ignorant? Just because they’re Latino doesn’t mean they’re gangbangers or dealers. They’re just normal people. 

But apparently, the police can be so ignorant, because they showed up at the bakery, humiliating her in front of her coworkers, and found two ounces of marijuana in her purse. Just the little bit she smokes at night to help relax and fall asleep. And they didn’t let her go like any reasonable person would. They came back to their house while he was at school with their dogs and warrant and found nothing, leaving everything a mess. 

They’ve questioned his mom four times now. 

Miguel’s heard horror stories, but he still can’t believe it’s happening to him, to his family. And none of it makes sense. He’s done a ton of research online, and even with Trump’s insane rhetoric and border enforcement tightening up like crazy, a law-abiding, tax-paying, little old granny who’s lived here for seventeen years without even a traffic violation should definitely have been given bail bond. Apparently, it can take years and years for the courts to process the case. 

She should be with him right now. There’s something he’s not being told, and he knows it.

He sure as hell could use her support right now. She’s the one who had his back when he began karate. Yaya, she believed in him. _Believes_. He’s not going to think about her in past tense. Not ever. His mom, he loves her more than life, but she’s so overprotective it’s stifling. Working as an ICU nurse is a daily reminder that bodies break and life ends, and Miguel can always tell the days she’s lost a patient, even if she doesn’t say anything. 

When she gets a look at his face she’s going to flip.

He’s managed to avoid her for three days now with excuses about training and schoolwork and sleepovers. She’s been working extra shifts to make up for Yaya’s income, so it hasn’t been difficult. They haven’t seen enough of each other lately. Not with his mom overstretched at work, wrapped up in talking to immigration lawyers every spare second, and spending her Sundays at church again (even though she never went with Yaya) as a last, desperate attempt to convince God to fix this. Not with Miguel getting sucked into Kreese’s all-consuming bullshit, becoming so obsessed with “defeating his enemies” and “learning how to take a punch” as a way to forget about Yaya. As a way to feel less powerless. 

He’s had three days to think about it, and he can’t believe how stupid he was, how unthinkingly he let Kreese mold him, how easily he gave up on Sensei when the man was no longer top dog. He’s ashamed of himself. Yesterday, when Miguel tried to apologize again, Sensei said he wasn’t going to take any of that “regret and guilt bullshit” and it was water under the bridge. And then he gave him a side-hug, which was nice, and a noogie, which wasn’t. Sort of. 

Miguel starts setting the table, laying out only two plates, and even that sends a lump of regret in his throat. Behind him, the lock clicks and the door rattles open. “Oh, Miggy, you’ve made dinner–” 

And he turns around to face her. And face her reaction. 

 

o - o - o - o - o

 

“Mom, Mom, come on!”

He’s chasing her out the door and she’s cussing in Spanish, in a low, terrifying voice. She’s not even listening to him. “Mom! I’m fine! Seriously, I’m fine!” Miguel touches her shoulder, trying to calm her down, but she shrugs him off sharply and beelines for Sensei’s door. 

Before he can stop her, she’s pounding on it, with not even just her fist, but her whole forearm. She’s a small woman, but she’s putting so much force into that knock that the silver hoops in her ears are swinging back and forth and the curls in her ponytail are smacking her eyes. It’s a war drum. 

Miguel clasps his hands together behind his head, arches his neck, and groans. “Come on, Mom,” he whines. “It’s not his fault.” 

Sensei’s even braver than Miguel ever guessed because he actually opens the door. He’s barefoot, wearing gray sweatpants (the retro kind that have elastic at the ankles). He hasn’t shaved, and his white t-shirt looks stained with sweat and beer. Great. Just great.

“Carmen, I know, I’m sorry–” 

She shoves Sensei’s chest. He doesn’t block, he doesn’t use any of the defense he’s drilled so ruthlessly into Miguel. He just holds out his hands in a helpless, wordless apology. She grits her teeth and slaps him right across the face. Miguel cringes.

“I deserved that,” Sensei says. 

“You’re damn right.” She shakes her head. “Not only did you get him beat up again, but you had my son keeping it from me, lying to me–”

“Mom, that wasn’t Sensei’s fault!” Miguel shouts. 

They both turn to him. He takes a deep breath. “Sensei Lawrence had no idea I was avoiding you. I just, I didn’t want you to be upset, okay?” 

“No, Miguel,” his mom says, her voice quivering with anger. “It’s not okay. We don’t keep secrets in our house. You know that.” 

Miguel crosses his arms and narrows his eyes. “Do you?” 

“What are you talking about?” 

He bites down on his lower lip and drops his eyes. He’s not sure he has the courage to confront her. He’s not sure he can handle the truth, whatever it is. He clears his throat and speaks to the gravel. “I know you’re not telling the truth about what’s going on with Yaya.” 

His mom and Sensei exchange a look. Like they know something he doesn’t. He feels the betrayal like a punch to the gut. 

“I’m trying to protect you, Miggy,” his mom says. 

“I told you you should tell him,” Sensei says with a sigh.

She points at him accusingly. “You stay out of this.” 

Sensei pulls a hand through his hair and nods. “Do you want to come in?” He opens the door and with one last, sour look, his mom shoves back his teacher. Miguel follows them both inside. 

 

o - o - o - o - o

 

They’re settled on Sensei’s sofa, his mom and Sensei. Sensei’s pressing out a migraine in his temples. His mom’s back is straight and defensive, not at all like she normally sits. Miguel’s propped up against the TV stand, facing them, one knee tucked up against his chest, his palms digging into the edge of the wood. 

“Miggy,” his mom starts, hesitating, and then jumps right into it, “the reason why they aren’t posting Yaya’s bond is because they think we’re associated with bad people. They’re holding her because they want information.” 

“What?” he asks, incredulous. “We don’t even know any bad people.” He tightens his hand into a fist. “Why would they even think that of us? You’re a nurse. Yaya’s a pastry chef.” 

He sees his mom and sensei exchange that look again, and his rage turns into dread. “We don’t, do we? We’re not involved with any bad people.” He’s not sure if it comes out as more of a statement or a question, but his voice is breaking and he wishes he had his growth spurt earlier so he could stop sounding like a middle school loser. 

“Mom, is someone threatening you?” he asks quickly in Spanish. He didn’t mean to exclude Sensei, it came out automatically. He’s been bilingual since he first learned to speak, but Spanish is more comfortable, more real to him somehow. English is friends and school and the outside world. Spanish is home. He rarely dreams in English.

His mom shakes her head, and her eyes are brimming with tears. “No one’s threatening me, Miggy,” she answers in English. “We’re safe. There’s no one out to hurt us, but I’ve…I’ve kept some things from you. About why we left Ecuador.” 

“You left because there weren’t any jobs. You left because you wanted me to get a good education– ”

“Yes, yes, I did. I do,” his mom says, too fast. “But there’s more.” 

Miguel tightens his grip against the edge of the stand. He feels pressure against his palms, and pushes deeper against it. 

“Your father… I was very young. Eighteen. A teenager. I was in love with him, and everything happened so quickly. And when I found out the truth about his job, when I found out what kind of person he was, I knew I had to leave, for our safety…”

“What do you mean?” 

“Your dad’s a drug lord, kid.” 

His mom looks about ready to slap Sensei again, but Miguel’s grateful for the blunt truth. Even if he’s sick to his stomach. 

“He wasn’t a drug lord back then. He was a runner. He was new to the lifestyle. When I found out, he told me it was temporary. But I knew he was just telling me what I wanted to hear, and I wasn’t going to let my baby grow up like that. I loved him, but I loved you more, Miggy. Even before you were born. And I wasn’t going to put you at risk. Your father was dangerous. 

“I didn’t look back. The only thing I cared about was making a new life for you, protecting you. I’ve had no contact with your father since we left Ecuador. I didn’t know if he was dead or alive until the police took your abuela and started questioning me.” 

She shakes her head, furious. “Apparently he’s moved up in the world. Enough to be on the government’s radar, enough that his crimes follow this family all the way to Reseda. We don’t have anything to do with him, but the police don’t care. I don’t even know how they found out about us, but they’re desperate for information. They think they can blackmail me into talking by detaining your abuela. But I have nothing to say. I’ve told them everything I know.” 

Miguel is quiet. So quiet he can hear the blood rushing in his ears, his heart thumping in his chest. It’s too much to take in. 

Whenever he’d asked about his dad, his mom had told him the same story: that he’d been too young and immature to be a father at the time. That her best chance of giving her baby a good life was coming to America. It was a common enough story. Plenty of kids have deadbeat dads. Even Sensei abandoned his kid for a while. Miguel’s not even angry at her for lying. 

He just feels hollow.

“Do I look like him?” He doesn’t know why it’s the first thought that comes out. 

His mom covers her mouth, trying to keep back tears. “Miggy…” 

“Do I, do I remind you of him? Do you think I’m like him?” 

And now it all makes sense. Why she was so overprotective all these years. Why she never wanted him to do karate. Why she was so strict about non-violence. Why she babied him. She knew he’d do exactly what he did do if given the chance: turn self-defense into sadism, let his aggression take control. 

She knew because it’s in his blood. 

“No sweetie, not at all.” But he’s not sure he can believe her. “Miggy…” his mom tries. 

“I do, don’t I?” 

“Jesus, Miguel,” Sensei interrupts. “What are you, a girl? Stop turning this into a soap opera. You’re too much of a dork to ever end up like that. You’re more of a Duckie than a drug lord. Look at yourself.” 

For some reason, Miguel feels a little relief. He doesn’t believe them 100%, but he believes them more than he did a second ago. 

“What’s a Duckie?” 

“ _Pretty in Pink_? No? Not ringing a bell? Oh my God. I know the title’s lame, but it’s a classic. Pro tip – it’s the perfect date night movie.” Sensei turns to his mom. “Kids these days know nothing.” And it almost brings a smile to her face. 

 

o - o - o - o - o

 

They go back to the Diaz house because Sensei doesn’t have Netflix or Amazon or any other streaming service. (Or even know what a streaming service is.) The three of them watch _Pretty in Pink_ and eat Miguel’s home-cooked meal in front of the TV. Sensei cracks his bananas joke again and his mom rolls her eyes, but Miguel can tells she finds it endearing. 

His mom is sitting next to Sensei on the sofa, and Miguel’s on his knees on the floor with a bowl of popcorn. When he gets up to go to the bathroom, Sensei’s hand is resting protectively on his mom’s knee and they’re sitting close. Closer than friends. 

He pretends he doesn’t notice, but he feels his face flush. And despite his embarrassment, he’s happy about it. 

 

o - o - o - o - o

 

It’s hard to fall asleep. He’s stirring and turning and the AC’s not working, so his sheets are sticking to his legs. He feels stupid for that fleeting moment of hope. 

He can’t get ahead of himself, wanting things that won’t ever be. Real men don’t date women with kids. They don’t raise other men’s children. It’s too much baggage. Too much work. In the past, boyfriends have dropped his mom because of him. She’s never said it, but he knows it. And Sensei didn’t want to be Robby’s dad, and Robby’s his own flesh and blood. So Miguel’s sure as hell not arrogant enough to imagine Sensei would want to be his dad. He’s only another student, even if they are close.

Actually, he’s lying to himself. He _is_ imagining it. Which only makes it harder to accept a happy ending like that won’t ever happen.

He squeezes his eyes shut, tries to force himself to fall asleep, but of course that doesn’t work. He feels more alone than ever. He wishes he could sneak back into his mom’s room like he used to when he was little. When she would soothe away the nightmares and rock him to sleep. He wishes he could find Yaya on the porch, take in the stale smell of her late-night joint, listen to the stories about when she was a little girl, or her snarky remarks about the bakery customers. He wishes he could find an excuse to go knock on Sensei’s door so he wouldn’t have to be alone. 

His abuela’s gone, and he has no idea when or if he’ll get her back. He has no idea how she’s being treated. What if they don’t let her take her blood pressure medication? What if her bed is uncomfortable? What if she doesn’t have privacy? 

He’s disappointed himself and disappointed Sensei for not standing up to Kreese all these months. And he can’t get that damn old man’s words out of his head. _Wimp. Pussy. Weakling. Bitch. Girl._

And now he knows that every time his mom looks at him, deep down she’s looking at the mirror image of the evil, drug-dealing murderer she ran away from all those years ago. He knows she’s looking at the kind of person he could grow up to be. He’d lost Sam because he let his aggression take control. She saw the truth about him before he could see it himself. 

He curls his knees up tight against his chest and tries to will it all away. He wonders if there’s ever a middle, a place between being a pussy and a monster. A way to be normal again. He doesn’t want to go back to who he was before he meant Sensei Lawrence, but he can’t handle feeling like this either, like he has to be on top or he’s nothing. 

For a moment there last spring, it felt like he had the whole world in his hands. He had Sam. He had his mom and abuela at his back, cheering him on, rooting for him. He was so close to Sensei, who’d given him everything – his confidence, his strength, his friends. It’s probably completely idiotic, and it’s too late to change how he feels, but he’s pretty sure he loves him. Not that he’d ever tell him. Sensei would call him a homo or something. He’s only ever loved his mom and Yaya before and he really, really hates himself for being so stupid. 

Everything is slipping away, and he doesn’t trust the things that are left. He doesn’t trust that he deserves them. He doesn’t trust they won’t be taken away from him, too.

o - o - o - o - o

A/N Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Next week's chapter, "No Such Thing as Free Lunch" is coming Wednesday, June 13th. Sam's POV. 


	5. No Such Thing as Free Lunch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roundhouse kicks and weaponized lunch trays aren’t the only way to take down bullies in the cafeteria. Sam’s POV, third person limited.

Sam sifts her fork through oil and vinegar, wrinkling her nose at soggy gray iceberg lettuce and tomatoes so freezer-burnt they’re discolored white. She takes a bite and regrets her meal choice. At least with the sloppy Joes, you have the beauty of not knowing what you’re eating. When she was little, her mom had wanted to put her in private school, and while Sam’s glad her dad insisted she go to West Valley like a normal kid, she can’t help but think her mom had a point about the food.

“Sam, you don’t need to lose any weight,” Aisha says bluntly. She jabs her fork into a chicken nugget, takes a bite, makes a face, and puts the rest of the nugget back on her plate. 

“Trust me,” Sam groans, “if this food were edible, I’d be eating it.” 

Aisha takes a considering look at the limp leaves on her plate, and decides she believes her. Which is a relief, because Sam doesn’t entirely deserve Aisha’s trust. She’s grateful she has it, though. 

She looks at Aisha, a long look, and feels her heart clench. She’s still frustrated with herself and dealing with random pangs of guilt for everything she did last school year. Or more accurately, everything she _didn’t_ do. Every time she avoided her in the hallway. Every time she made excuses for why she couldn’t hang out. Every time she didn’t say a word or even give a look when Yasmine made a nasty comment behind Aisha’s back.

She’s not going to be that girl anymore. She’s promised herself that if she sees an injustice, she’ll speak out. No matter the cost. 

Looking back, it had been gradual, one small exception to her morals leading to the next, until she could justify standing next Yasmine as she sent a nasty meme to the entire school humiliating her former best friend. Maybe it had seemed sudden to Aisha, that one summer Sam had up and disappeared, but if Sam’s honest with herself, it had started the year before. The year she decided she couldn’t stand being chubby anymore. The year she decided she was sick of being overlooked by the boys, even more sick of being overlooked by the girls who were looked at by the boys. Sick of being the girl whose only use was to copy her homework. Sick of no one remembering her name except the teachers. 

That year, she’d promised herself she was going to be cool no matter what. 

Sam had lost forty pounds, so much weight that she’d reached her goal – visible hipbones and a thigh gap. And when it started getting too extreme, Aisha was the only one who’d said something. Her mom was just glad they were bonding over Soul Cycling and was too busy to notice, and her dad had been so skinny when he was her age, he thought it was normal. But Aisha, she’d been genuinely concerned, and it was that exact concern that pushed Sam further away. She hadn’t wanted Aisha holding her back from who she wanted to be, hadn’t wanted Aisha constantly reminding her of who she actually was: an overweight nerd who talked way too much about Legolas, whose best story was about her Rube Goldberg project, who had never been asked out and probably never would be. 

The moment Yasmine had started paying attention to her, there was no going back. Yasmine’s nastiness only made her crave her attention more – she had to be doing something right if the meanest girl in school found her important enough to be nice to. 

It’s strange how hunger and discipline can become addictive, if you let them. She’s healthier now, but Aisha watches out for her just in case. She doesn’t deserve Aisha’s forgiveness, but she accepts it. 

“The french fries aren’t too bad,” Aisha says, and dumps half of hers on Sam’s tray. 

“Thanks.” Sam takes a bite and nearly chokes on it. 

Because at that exact moment, Miguel limps past their table. He’s been out of school for four days. The swelling’s gone down in his eye and the blue has faded to green and jaundice yellow, but there’s no mistaking he took a hit to the face. He takes a seat at his usual spot a few tables over, between Dimitri and Hawk. Moon’s touching the blue spikes of Hawk’s mohawk and laughing about something. 

Her stomach is churning at the sight of him hurt. Miguel was a jerk to her in the end, but seeing him so vulnerable a few nights ago sharply dispelled any lingering anger she’d still held onto. In fact, it made her mind replay everything that had happened last spring on repeat.

If she’s honest with herself, she’s thought it over a thousand times before he’d shown up at her door looking like Rocky at the end of a movie. Because with Kyler, it was all a front, but with Miguel, she constantly doubts whether or not it was. Miguel was the boy who was so dorky he wasn’t afraid to bring her to a kiddy place like Golf n’ Stuff on a first date. He made references to lame dad rock like it was the coolest music in the world. He did well in school and didn’t act like it came easy. He’d read Lord of the Rings and thought Gimli was a badass. (They’d actually had a fifteen-minute argument on the scouring of the Shire.) 

Miguel hadn’t even make a move to kiss her. He’d let her decide when to make the first move. She’d liked that best of all. He wasn’t like Kyler, who didn’t listen to _no_ , who knowingly pushed past her comfort zone, who’d ruined her reputation when he didn’t get what he wanted. Miguel had seemed so genuine. And then he’d gone and gotten wasted, falsely accused her of cheating, and instigated a fight with Robby which ended up with her at the other end of his hit.

He hadn’t mean to strike her. But he’d meant to strike first. And that was enough.

Yet, if she’s being completely fair, she had done to him exactly what she’d done to Aisha. She’d hurt him by being passive. Hurt him by not sticking up for him. If she’d only told her parents she’d been dating Miguel in the first place, the misunderstanding wouldn’t have never happened. She’s not responsible for his violent overreaction, but she is responsible for her part. 

She wonders, maybe, if her complete rejection of him was a knee-jerk reaction. A reaction more to what Kyler had done, to what she expected all guys to do, to how mistrusting she was of Cobra Kai, than to Miguel’s actual actions. Which weren’t great, not by a long stretch, but…he’d tried apologizing at the tournament. She hadn’t been ready to listen, though. And then when he’d gone and behaved so viciously in the final fight after she’d left, well, that confirmed everything she’d needed to know.

She catches him looking at her sometimes, in the hallways, in AP English, but he always averts his eyes when she looks back, like he hadn’t realized he’d been staring. 

“You can stop staring now,” Aisha says. 

Great. Now she’s the one doing it. 

“Right. Sorry.” Sam shoves a french fry in her mouth, forcing herself not to look at him. “Poor Miguel,” she eventually whispers. 

Aisha raises an eyebrow at that. 

“What?”

“Nothing. Did I say anything?” 

“Your eyebrow said something,” Sam jokes half-heartedly. 

Aisha smiles, but it’s just as forced. She blows raspberries and pushes away her tray.

“What’s the matter?”

Aisha shrugs. “Just feeling like a complete dick is all.” 

Sam _really_ doesn’t love the language Aisha’s picked up at Cobra Kai, but she’s not going to complain, not when things between them are still fragile. “Why?” 

“See Miguel’s eye? That was me.” 

Sam’s heart skips a beat and she suppresses an irrational urge to slap Aisha across the face. She takes a deep breath and tries to calm down. 

She doesn’t have a right to be protective of Miguel. They’re not even friends. 

Robby had told her that Kreese had goaded some of the Cobra Kai kids into beating up Miguel. (And then she realizes, rather guiltily, that this is the first she’s thought of Robby all day. She’ll think about that later.) Technically, Sam should have guessed Aisha was a part of it, but it’d never crossed her mind. Aisha is the girl who dressed as a chemical compound for the Halloween dance. The girl who sang _Love Is An Open Door_ with Sam at sleepovers, even though they were twelve and probably too old for it. Aisha, for all the ways she’s changed in the past year, is not a bully.

Aisha huffs. “I knew it was wrong when it was happening. I knew we were pushing it too far. I decided to get one good punch in so Kreese wouldn’t know I was holding back. But that was weak. I should’ve done something. I should’ve stood up to him.” She pushes back her chair as she stands. “I’m going to go say sorry.” 

“I’ll come with you.” Sam’s standing before she realizes she’s made a move. Aisha cocks her eyebrow again, and Sam blushes. They head toward the other lunch table in tandem. 

 

o - o - o - o - o

 

“Yo.” Hawk gives them a lazy nod of his head without actually looking at them. His one arm is slung around Moon and his other hand is busy fiddling with his phone. “What’s up?” 

On the other side of the table, Miguel drops his forehead into his palm. “Hey,” he says to the table. His food has gone largely uneaten. 

Sam fights the urge to turn and run away. He obviously doesn’t want them there. But if Miguel and his sensei are joining Miyagi-do, they might as well get used to spending time together. 

Aisha takes the empty seat next to Moon, directly across from Miguel, and Sam’s left standing there awkwardly. There’s an empty chair between Miguel and Dimitri, but there’s not enough room to squeeze by either boy and sit. At the same time, they both make a move to change seats, and smack into each other. 

Sam turns bright red. In fact, all three of them do. She ends up next to Dimitri instead of Miguel, thankfully, and across the table from Hawk.

“So what brings you lovely ladies to our private chambers?” Dimitri says, his voice sardonic as always. “Here for the view?” He gestures grandly to the bathroom doors beside them. 

Aisha gets right to the point. “Actually, I’m here to apologize. Miguel, I was an asshole. That went way too far and it’s never going to happen again.” 

Miguel brushes his hair back, even though it wasn’t in his eyes. “It’s fine,” he says quickly. “Water under the bridge.” His eyes shift sharply to Sam and then back down again. “What can I say?” he jokes. “You pack a good punch.” 

“I’m pretty sure there’s a lunch packing pun in there somewhere,” Dimitri says, until he interrupts himself with the realization: “Wait! _You_ did that to him?” 

Aisha ignores Dimitri. “It’s not fine. I talked to Sensei Lawrence, and I’m leaving Cobra Kai too. Just so you know, a lot of us are. I wanted to tell you in person that I’m sorry. Hawk, what about you?” 

Hawk yawns, loud and obnoxious, and looks up from his phone. “Sorry, I was playing Candy Crush. What were we talking about?” 

“You were about to say sorry to Miguel,” Aisha says, in the voice of a mom whose children don’t dare give lip. 

Hawk gives the table a smug grin. “Oh yeah, that’s right. Miguel. I forgot about how we beat the shit out you. How’s your dick by the way?” 

“Oh my God, Hawk! Gross!” Moon exclaims with an uncomfortable giggle. She slaps him playfully across the arm. 

“I don’t see why my dick is any of your concern,” Miguel replies through clenched teeth. 

Sam feels her heart drop to her stomach and she clenches her teeth, too. The beating was worse than she’d even guessed. 

“Eli – you kicked him in the balls?” Dimitri asks beside her, his mouth literally dropping open like an appalled old lady. “Hold up, hold up,” Dimitri says, holding out his hands like a cartoon policeman calling _stop!_ . “I’m misunderstanding this, right?” 

“Don’t be such a bitch, Dimitri.” Hawk shrugs. “It’s just part of our training. But it looks like these two are too pussy to handle the real Cobra Kai.” 

Moon shakes her head indulgently. “Guys are so crazy, aren’t they?” she says to Sam with that airhead voice of hers, like Sam would understand. 

“No, Moon,” Sam snaps, frustrated. “This isn’t boys being boys. It’s assault.” 

“Typical female. Always valuing safety over freedom. It’s why they shouldn’t be allowed to vote.” 

“What the fuck?” Aisha says. 

“Moon agrees with me.” Hawk nudges his girlfriend with his elbow. 

Moon looks around at the table, uneasy and on the spot. “Oh, I don’t care about politics,” she says, trying to please them all at once. “It doesn’t matter to me.” 

“See what I mean?”

Sam shakes her head and narrows her eyes at Hawk. “You disgust me. And if your idea of freedom is the freedom to hurt whoever you want, however you want, without consequences, yes, we have an issue. What you did was assault.” 

“You know, your precious Miguel could’ve gone to the cops if he had a problem with the way we treated him. Hey Miggy, why didn’t you go to the cops?” 

“Just drop it, Hawk. I’m not in the mood.” Miguel’s arms are crossed tightly over his chest and he’s glaring at Hawk, but Sam can’t tell if it’s an aggressive stance or an insecure one. Probably both. 

“Oh yeah, that’s right. Your family’s not here legally, so you can’t go to the cops. And meanwhile, my dad’s tax dollars are paying for your reduced lunch. America. Gotta love it.” 

“Jesus, Hawk. Stop being a dick.” Aisha reaches behind Moon to smack the back of his head.

“I’m just pointing out the truth.” He sticks his tongue out at Aisha, like it’s all a big joke. 

“Dude, Eli, you’re Jewish.” Dimitri sounds shocked. “I thought the whole Pepe alt-right schtick you’ve been on was ironic. Are you joking? Please tell me you’re joking. We’ve been best friends since third grade –”

“First of all, you don’t have to be a race realist to acknowledge the alt right makes some good points. Second, look at yourself,” Hawk says. “Still whining. Still wimpy. Still depressed. Still thinking grades are all that matters in life. Still blaming everyone else for your problems, sitting around waiting for someone to save you. Meanwhile, I can defend myself. I’ve improved myself. I’m fucking the hottest girl in school. Right babe?” 

Moon gives him a smile that’s more of a grimace. 

“Dimitri, I’m telling you this because I’m your friend. Whose ideology do you think is working out better for him, huh? Just let me know when you’re ready to step out of the hole of self-pity you’ve dug for yourself and I’ll be there, man. I haven’t given up on you.” 

“I told you about my depression in confidence,” Dimitri hisses, his face red, his shoulders pulled in as he looks in shame to the girls at the table, whom he barely knows. Despite how obviously horrible Hawk is, Dimitri still manages to sound hurt and betrayed. 

“Oh, I’m sorry. Did the truth trigger you? Do you need a tissue?” 

“He doesn’t need a tissue, you need empathy,” Sam grinds out. She’s shaking in righteous anger. 

“Right. Just like you had so much empathy for us when you were popular. Can’t handle it when the tables are turned, can you?” 

Sam swallows. “I didn’t. You’re right.” Her eyes flicker to Aisha. “And I’m sorry.” She turns back to Hawk. “But this isn’t about me. It’s about you. And you’re not going to talk to us like that. You’re never going to touch Miguel again. Do you hear me?”

She standing now, leaning over into Hawk’s personal space, her arms spread out across the lunch table. 

“Sam, I don’t need you to stand up for me,” Miguel mumbles. Sam knows that even if Miguel wanted to fight (which he probably does), he’s in no condition to do so. She’s going to make sure he doesn’t need to. 

Hawk throws his head back and laughs. “What a cuck.” 

“I’m sorry, did you not hear me the first time?” Sam shouts. “Don’t speak to us like that.” 

“What are you gonna do about it? Come on, princess, hit me with your best shot. I’ll even let you get the first blow. It’s only fair since you’re a girl.” He sticks his chin out. 

Sam shakes her head, boiling with anger but refusing to let it take control. 

“See, that’s where you’re wrong. I don’t need to hit you to take you down. All I need to do is this.” 

She snaps back her chair with the back of her knees, pivots on her toe and walks away. In under a second, three more chairs scratch against the cheap, mop-stained tile floor. 

A moment later, there’s another scrape, and Moon’s jogging to catch up with them. 

 

o - o - o - o - o

 

The first warning bell has rung and Sam and Miguel are loitering in the hallway. Sam’s holding her Calculus textbook close to her chest and Miguel’s hands are tucked into his jeans pockets, wrists bent. Students are pushing past them, hurrying to get to class.

“I appreciate what you did back there,” Miguel starts, biting his lower lip and bobbing his head up and down – he’s nervous. “But I can fight my own battles.”

“I know you can,” Sam agrees. “But I have your back, anyway. Like you did for me with Kyler.” 

“Yeah, I guess so.” He pauses. “Thanks.” 

It’s September, and this is the most they’ve spoken since late May. Sam feels a lurching in her heart, like she has to fill up the empty space between them with as many words as possible before he turns and walks away. Before they spend another four months estranged. “We’re going to be seeing a lot of each other, now that you and your sensei are with Miyagi-do. I just… I don’t want there to be anything bad between us anymore.” 

“Me either.” He pushes a hand through his hair and it falls back down, half-covering his bruised eye. “I…I’m really sorry for what happened at the party. I’ve been meaning to apologize for a while. It was the first time I ever got drunk, or was even at a party, actually, and I was acting stupid. I know drinking’s not an excuse, but…anyway, I’m sorry.” 

Sam squeezes her textbook more tightly against her, and the pressure is comforting. “It’s okay.”

“It is?”

She nods. “You tried to apologize before, but I wasn’t ready to listen. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry I didn’t tell my dad about you. I kept procrastinating because I didn’t want him to freak out about me dating a Cobra Kai. I should’ve told him right away.” 

“ _That’s_ why you didn’t tell him about me?” 

“Why did you think I didn’t tell him?” 

“Nothing. Never mind,” Miguel says, too quickly. “It’s stupid.” 

“No really, Miguel. What else could there possibly be – ”

Miguel shrugs and turns away from her, so he’s half-facing a flyer calling for _West Side Story_ auditions in the school auditorium. Sam’s heart drops down to her stomach, because suddenly, just from how he’s standing, she knows what Miguel is going to say before he says anything. 

“I thought maybe, I don’t know, you were ashamed of me. Because I’m from Reseda…” He shrugs again. “I mean, you guys have seasonal Lakers tickets. Your dad owns car dealerships and I still ride the bus to school…”

“You thought I was ashamed of you because you’re not rich? How could you even think that?” 

“What was I supposed to think? And then you ignore my texts and show up to the party holding hands with some rich, hot white dude. I know the truth now, but, at the time…” 

She wants to yell at him, she’s so frustrated. How could he believe she could be that shallow? She thought they’d had a connection. That he understood her. That he saw more in her than a hot, dumb Valley Girl with a rich daddy. It stings. It stings all the more deeply because, with the “friends” she was hanging out with when they met, Miguel’d had every reason to assume the worst about her. 

“My dad grew up in Reseda, Miguel. He would never hold that against you. I wouldn’t either.” 

A silence weighs between them, and Sam can’t tell if it’s good or bad. She feels like she’s seeing him again for the very first time. Seeing that his home and his background aren’t some random facts about him, but a part of him, a part of him that makes him view the world differently than she does. And maybe he’s seeing her that way, too. 

“You know, we really need to improve our communication skills,” Sam jokes. It falls flat, but Miguel gives her a crooked smile anyway. 

“I’m sorry. What did you say? I wasn’t listening.”

Sam smiles back at him, and Miguel’s crooked smile evens out into something almost real. 

The bell rings again, and they’re officially late to class. “I should go. I’ll see you at the dojo tonight.” 

Miguel kicks back his foot against the wall and Sam flushes at the sight of him leaning against it, looking so cool. “See you then.” 

As she walks away, she’s shaking her head, mentally cursing herself for the mess she’s suddenly found herself in. Because she still has feelings for Miguel. In fact, she doesn’t think she ever actually stopped. She’d been too stubborn and angry to recognize her own emotions. 

What is she going to tell Robby? 


	6. Roll with the Punches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a long day teaching, and the under the influence of Van Halen and sake, Daniel and Johnny hit the mat. Daniel’s POV third person limited.

 

_I get up, and nothing gets me down_

_You got it tough, I’ve seen the toughest around_

_And I know, baby, just how you feel_

_You’ve got to roll with the punches and get to what’s real_

_– Jump, Van Halen_

 

“This is boring.” The scrawny kid sighs deeply and throws himself on the floor on his back. His glasses fall askew and Daniel tightens his fist, attempting to restrain himself from exploding at a ten-year-old, if that. He has no idea how Johnny Lawrence, of all people, managed to keep this kid’s attention. He has about the worst case of ADD Daniel’s ever seen. Daniel’s been teaching him for a little over a week, and each lesson the kid acts out more. He’s worse than Anthony, and that’s saying something. 

The six other kids in the class are staring at him, their flow interrupted. Four of them are Daniel’s and two are Cobra Kai, and while it’s only been a week and their rivalries are still pretty strong, it looks like they’re united on being extremely annoyed with the youngest, smallest student in the class. 

“It’s not boring, it’s kata,” Daniel says, the effort of restraint scarcely hidden behind the calm. “Now get back at the end of the mat so we can start the form over.” 

“How are you ever gonna beat anybody up if you go slow like that?” he argues, jumping to his feet and sulking with his arms crossed over his chest. 

“Karate’s not about beating people up. It’s about never having to.” 

“That’s lame. Sensei LaRusso, can we do some _real_ karate?” Bert demonstrates with a poorly executed roundhouse kick. “Kiai!” he bellows out, actually quite deep for a boy his size. 

“Bert!” Johnny comes in from the other room, barking the boy’s name. In a split second, Bert stops his nonsense and stands at military attention. 

“Yes, Sensei!” he shouts, voice pip-squeak high, little body quivering with effort. 

“Are you giving Mr. LaRusso a hard time?” 

“Yes, Sensei!”

“Good job,” he teases and catches Daniel’s frown. “But stop.” 

“But Sensei, it’s so boring–”

“Quiet!” Bert pinches his lips together to hide his smile. Daniel can’t believe it, but the little twerp is loving being shouted at. Go figure. 

“So you’re bored?” Johnny asks, a little smug. 

Bert nods enthusiastically. 

“All right, come on,” Johnny says. “Strike me.” 

The other kids are staring, suddenly intensely interested.

Bert bites down on his lower lip and nods, serious. He deepens his stance and realigns his hands, eyes his sensei up and down, as if he actually had any chance of defeating him. Bert darts out an arm to land a punch, but Johnny blocks it with nonchalance. Only Johnny doesn’t stop there. He grabs the kid’s forearm as he ends the block, twists it behind his back, and forward flips him so he lands smack on his back on the mat. Bert tries to scramble to his feet, but Johnny sweeps his ankle and he slams down again, this time one his side. 

Daniel winces. Of course he spars with his students, but that was pretty rough. One kid hollers out a _woo-hoo!_ and the class erupts into applause. 

When Bert turns around his glasses are in his hands. The wire frame bridge is snapped in half. “You broke my glasses!” 

“Then don’t wear glasses to class, four eyes,” Johnny chides. “This is a contact sport. What do you expect?” Bert nods, accepting Johnny’s answer without hesitation. “And if you’d been paying attention to Sensei LaRusso, maybe you could’ve stepped out of that twist before I had a chance to bring you to the floor. Yeah, kata’s all boring when you’re doing it, but those movements build the coordination and muscle strength you suck at. Karate’s not all kicks and punches. Sometimes, a simple side-step can make or break a fight. You have sloppy form, twerp. Do you think I accept sloppy form?”

“No Sensei,” Bert mumbles. 

“Then show respect to Sensei LaRusso and pay attention to what he’s teaching you.” 

“Yes Sensei.” 

“Now bow out. We’ve gone overtime.” Bert bows to him deeply at the waist. 

“Not to me,” Johnny says, in the tone of _you idiot_. 

Bert turns to Daniel and bows, just as deeply. The rest of the class follows suit. As the students pile out the door, Johnny playfully shoves Bert with his shoulder and Bert grins up at him in complete worship, as if he were the luckiest kid in the whole world. 

 

o - o - o - o - o 

 

 

“I know Bert doesn’t look like much,” Johnny says, chugging back a beer, “but he’s got a lot of spirit.You need to give him a hard time or else he gets discouraged. You know, he always behaves for me.”

“Noted,” Daniel says, a little ironically. 

They’re in the dojo, after hours. The last class of the night has just ended and it’s only him and Johnny. Daniel came straight from the autoshop and taught back-to-back kata, conditioning, and advanced sparring sessions. 

The two dojos weren’t combining as fluidly as he’d hoped and it was especially apparent among the older kids, who turned everything into a competition. Not that fighting isn’t inherently competitive, but when you’re teaching drills and the kids act like it’s a life-or-death street fight…it gets pretty exhausting. 

These past two weeks have been the weirdest of his life. It’s weird enough teaching together, but at least the fighting aspect of it is consistent with their old interactions. Nothing tops the bizarreness of last week, when they’d worked out inanities like scheduling and pricing and interior decorating before combining their dojos. Johnny’d said Miyagi-do looked like a spa in Chinatown that offered happy endings, and the remark almost escalated into a fistfight. It ended with Daniel agreeing to add pops of red, black, and yellow to the color scheme. 

Since when did they turn into old ladies? And who would ever have guessed Daniel would be arguing about where to display their karate trophies with his high school bully? By choice?

“Also, we need to work on his stage fright,” Johnny says. “We’ve gotta continuously pair him against older, bigger kids. Not that he had a chance at the tournament, but I don’t want him freezing up like that again, no matter how huge his opponent is. Kid went down without a single move. We can’t let that happen in real life. He has it hard at school ‘cause he’s such a weirdo.” 

Daniel hates to admit it, but Johnny’s actually a pretty good teacher. Excluding how earlier today he floored a kid wearing glasses and managed to break them, which could have cut the boy’s eye, sent him to the hospital, potentially permanently blinded him, and landed them with a fat lawsuit. 

“You’re good with him,” Daniel admits. But he doesn’t extend the compliment to the other students. Daniel does a lot better with the quiet artistic types, who Johnny can’t seem to handle whatsoever. Christ, he made Courtney cry. You can’t tell a teenage girl that her pink hair-dye makes her acne look worse. Even if it’s true. That’s Teaching 101. 

“Man, I’m exhausted,” Johnny says, vocalizing his own feelings. 

Daniel gives him a hard look, taking the dark circles that only seem to highlight Johnny’s blue eyes, the weary, sad look surrounding them, the light age lines that Daniel’s somehow managed to mostly avoid, despite being in his fifties. He would never have expected life to be so hard on golden boy Johnny Lawrence, and it’s humbling. You never know when the rug’s going to be pulled out from under you, you never realize how much your success is the gift of someone looking out for you until that person is gone. 

“Has Kreese given you any more trouble?” Daniel asks. 

“Nah.” Johnny shakes his head. “You know, sometimes I wonder if this wasn’t too extreme. Maybe I should’ve worked it out with him.” 

“No way,” Daniel says. “I saw Miguel. I know what that man can do.” His tone is forceful, even harsh, but Johnny needs to hear his complete certainty. When the guy talks about Kreese, he almost sounds like a battered housewife. Johnny can get combative about the least little insignificant crap, but Daniel’s starting to notice that whenever it comes to something important, he’s filled with doubt. 

So yeah, another way they’re eerily alike. 

“Yeah,” Johnny says eventually. He crushes his empty beer can – a cheap brand that was cool with the frat kids when they were young, Coors Banquet – and opens the fridge to grab another. “You want anything?” Johnny asks. 

Daniel has kept silent about the fact that Johnny’s filled the instructors’ office refrigerator with beer. As long as he doesn’t drink on the job, it’s not his business. “No thanks.” 

“Come on. Loosen up, LaRusso. You’re not going to leave me drinking alone, are you?” 

The fact that Johnny probably spends a lot of time drinking alone softens him a little. “Fine. But I’m not having any of that crap.” 

He kneels down in front of a bamboo cabinet that belonged to Mr. Miyagi. Everything he’s inherited from his mentor is meaningful to him, connects them together, even an ordinary piece of furniture. Daniel takes out a bottle of fine sake and two ochoko, painted ceramic cups he brought back from his first trip to Okinawa in 1984. 

Daniel pours the sake and hands a cup to Johnny. 

“So now we’re taking shots of vodka?” Johnny teases. “That escalated fast.” 

“It’s sake,” Daniel says, a little exasperated. 

“Whatever.” Johnny shrugs and chugs it. “Not bad. I expected it to be way harsher.”

“Just because it’s not harsh doesn’t mean it’s not strong,” Daniel warns. 

Daniel drinks his and then refills the cups. They drink another, and another, and another, as they shoot the shit. Talking about old teachers and old classmates, old music and old movies. Just old, old stuff that kids these days don’t even know about, because they’re old. 

This is probably a bad idea. 

“I saw you working with Miguel on drills today,” Johnny says, a little too nonchalantly. “Everything going okay with him?” 

Daniel nods. “Looks like his injuries are healing well. And he picks up quickly.”

“That’s not what I meant.” 

“He’s not giving me trouble,” Daniel says. 

Which is the truth, but it isn’t the full truth. Miguel’s mistrust of him radiates off like a biohazard warning sign. He’s perfectly obedient, perfectly polite. But he steps back when Daniel steps near. His eyes turn to Johnny for confirmation when Daniel corrects him. When Daniel and Johnny speak to each other, Miguel stands at alert, ready to jump in and defend his Sensei. He wonders what the hell Johnny told him to make him so paranoid. Thank God the other Cobras had seen Aisha’s trust in him and followed suit. 

“How’s it going with Robby?” Daniel tries, but Johnny’s eyes darken. 

“How’s it going with Anthony?” Johnny snaps. 

For all the kids he’s been helping, how is it that he has no idea how to help his own son? Anthony doesn’t care about anything but gaming and food. Daniel practically begged on his knees to get Anthony to join Miyagi-do, but it’s like talking to a brick wall. 

Anthony was born the year Mr. Miyagi died. The year Daniel couldn’t bring himself to practice karate anymore. The year he’d gone deep into debt to open his first autoshop, and it looked like it was about to go under. He was six years older than when he’d had Samantha, and he was already an older dad. Anthony was unplanned, a challenging, colicky baby. Every cry was headache-inducing. Every sleepless night was more unbearable than the one before. Every milestone was less exciting than it had been with Sam, because Daniel had little room for anything else but his grief. If Anthony’s more attached to his screen than he is to his father, it’s Daniel’s own damn fault. 

He pours them another round. 

“I wasn’t trying to pry about Robby. I was just being friendly,” Daniel says. 

“Well, that’s new,” Johnny mutters, somewhat mollified. 

“Yeah,” Daniel says, “it is.” 

“Hey, use your evil robot thing to play some music,” Johnny says after a while. “It’s too quiet.” 

“Evil robot thing?” Daniel cocks an eyebrow. He feels a little ashamed for buying an Echo for the dojo, but better that than be technologically illiterate like Johnny.

“You just wait. I’m gonna say I told you so when Skynet takes over.”

Daniel shakes his head indulgently. “What do you want to listen to, man?” 

“I don’t know. Van Halen.” 

“Alexa,” Daniel calls out, “play Van Halen.” 

The keyboard opening of _Jump_ sounds out over the speakers, and Johnny thrusts a fist into the air. “Hell yeah!”

Daniel may not be shouting it, but he feels it too – pumped up and nostalgic at the same time. 

He remembers the badass _1984_ album cover, a cherub smoking a cigarette. It came out their senior year of high school, and he must’ve played that record a thousand times. There was never a greater guitarist than Eddie Van Halen. Hell, he even made out with Ali to it once. 

“You know this song was dedicated to –” Daniel begins.

“Benny Urquidex,” they finish at the same time. 

“Six-time world karate champion. David Lee Roth was a student of his. Of course I know that,” Johnny scoffs. 

“Man, they don’t make music like this anymore,” Daniel says with a sigh. 

“No kidding.” The joy leaves Johnny’s face momentarily. “You ever think that the world gets worse and worse every year?” 

By the slur of his voice, Daniel knows Johnny’s drunk. Which means Daniel, who is shorter and thinner and certainly more of a lightweight than a functioning alcoholic, is most definitely drunker. 

“Like, I know old men are always whining about how things were better in their day,” Johnny continues. “But what if they’re saying it because they’re right? Like every generation inherits a shittier and shittier world.” 

_Might as well jump! Might as well jump!_ Roth is belting, and it feels like an imperative. 

Daniel thinks of global warming. He thinks of the disappearing middle class. He thinks of online bullying and nukes in North Korea and Iraq and selfies and Israel and Palestine and automation replacing jobs and the fact he can’t go on Facebook without watching his relatives erupt into political arguments. He knows Johnny’s not thinking of any of these things, but somehow, he aches at the thought that maybe Johnny’s right. Maybe, no matter how perfect a nook he carves out for his kids in this big, chaotic, violent sphere in the vast emptiness of space, things will never be as simple and peaceful and meaningful as they were when he was a kid, when Mr. Miyagi and the greatest generation were alive to keep everything safe and sane. 

“Well shit, man, you don’t have to wax on and on about it,” Johnny says, and Daniel realizes he was talking out loud. 

Daniel bursts into laughter. “Wax on and on about it,” he chokes out between laughs. 

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing. It’s an inside joke.” 

“Come on, get up,” Johnny goads, jumping to his feet. “Enough of this morbid self-pity. Let’s fight.” 

The world’s most epic guitar solo begins and Daniel grins, pulling himself to his feet. Mostly. He’s kind of wobbly. 

“For old time’s sake.” Johnny deepens his stance, and coils his hands into fists. But the smile on his mouth isn’t malicious. It’s playful. 

“No way,” Daniel says. “I’m wasted and out of shape.” But he is already standing, already getting into position. 

“What, are you afraid?” Johnny taunts. “Come on, Danielle.” 

Daniel closes off the memory of Dutch all those years ago, threatening him in the locker room before the final fight. “That wasn’t funny the first time around.” 

“Yeah,” Johnny admits. “Dutch was nutcase. I heard he was doing time in the ‘90s for sexual assault.”

“I’m not surprised.” 

Johnny’s bouncing on the balls of his feet and Daniel finds himself doing the same. It has to be the music. And the sake. There’s no other explanation for why Daniel roundhouse-kicks Johnny’s head like it actually _is_ 1984\. 

His foot makes contact and Johnny stumbles back, but the move is too sloppy to do much damage. Johnny looks like he just won the lottery as he bounces back into the action, spinning to gain momentum before he elbows Daniel in the throat. Daniel miraculously blocks it, although not well, and they’re caught up in a series of messy punches and jabs and feints and blocks and twists and staggering, drunken footwork they should probably be ashamed of. 

Johnny finally knocks Daniel to the floor with a front kick, but he’s so drunk he’s thrown off balance and falls down, too. They’re laughing their asses off on the floor and _Hot for Teacher is_ playing when Amanda opens the door to the dojo. 

“Daniel, are you kidding me?”

She steps inside and shakes her head, furious. “Are you drunk?” 

“Um…” Daniel says as he sits up, shamefaced like a little kid caught with the candy jar. The room is spinning around in a way that it hasn’t since he was a college freshman on a binge. 

Johnny’s giving Amanda a look of pure admiration. Daniel doesn’t like it a bit. 

“Maybe?” Daniel says, sheepish. 

“It’s two o’clock in the morning on a Wednesday. I’ve been trying to reach you for an hour. I was worried you were in a car accident. I was checking the sides of the road for your car in a ditch.” 

“I’m sorry babe.” Daniel stumbles to his feet but Johnny’s still lying on the floor, snickering to himself at Daniel’s scolding. 

“Are the kids worried?” Daniel asks. 

“Thank God they’re asleep.”

“I’m really sorry. We lost track of time.” 

She shakes her head, but this time he can tell the anger and worry is wearing off, and she’s actually kind of amused. He’s never done this before. In fact, he’s pretty straight-laced. Her lips are pursed probably because she’s upset, but also because she’s trying to stop herself from laughing. 

“I’m giving you both five minutes to close up and then I’m taking you home. You too, Johnny.” 

“That’s all right,” Johnny says from the floor. “I can drive. I’ve driven way drunker than this.” 

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.” Amanda pivots on her toe and saunters out. 

“Does your wife talk to you like that often?” Johnny asks as he gets to his feet. 

Daniel tenses. He opens his mouth to defend her when Johnny finishes, “Because she is _hot_ when she’s angry.” 

“Shut up,” Daniel says. But there’s not much heat to it. Amanda _is_ hot when she’s angry. 

She’s pretty much hot all the time. 

On the ride to Johnny’s place, Amanda turns on 80s and 8 on Sirius XM, and as they pull up to Johnny’s apartment, the three of them are belting out _867-5309_ together, completely off key. 

All things considered, even if the world is getting worse every year, at least some nights, small things get better. 


	7. Young Hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Robby backslides into old behavior, he learns there are multiple ways a heart can break. Robby’s POV, third person limited.

Probably the worst thing about Cobra Kai joining Miyagi-do is that Robby officially has to listen to his dad. Actually, it’s not probably the worst thing. It _is_ the worst thing.

A close second is the way Miguel constantly stares at Samantha, and changes partners around the room so that he never has to drill with Sam or spar with her or touch her. 

A close third is the way Sam knows exactly what Miguel is doing, and why, and how she averts her eyes when Miguel looks at her, and checks to see if Robby noticed. 

And currently, Robby’s stuck dealing with all three shitty changes. 

“You’ve got excellent form,” his dad is saying, “and your defense is strong. But you need to learn that your best defense is offense. Aisha was able to make critical contact because you let her hit first, you let her come to you. Sometimes, one hit is all your opponent needs to take you down. You need to anticipate when someone’s going to strike, and end the fight before he has the chance to touch you.” 

“I thought Mr. LaRusso specifically banned the strike first philosophy,” Robby says, arms crossed. He doesn’t know why he’s rubbing salt in his dad’s wounds – he knows it must’ve been a blow to his ego to accept help, to leave his own dojo. But he says it anyway. 

His dad gives him a hard look. “I’m not talking about randomly punching a stranger who gives you a dirty look. I’m not talking about escalating a shouting match. I’m not talking about starting up a bar brawl. I’m talking about feeling for when a fight is inevitable, when you’re threatened, by a mugger, a bully, whatever. It’s different. You know when a fight’s already started before anyone makes a move to hit. And you have to do what you must to protect yourself.”

Robby nods. He could be pedantic, but it’s really not worth the effort. And as much as he wants to irritate his dad, he doesn’t, too. 

His teaching style’s way different from Mr. LaRusso’s, and Robby doesn’t like it. Robby fights better when he’s focused and calm, when he can let go of all the shit he carries around with him, the shit that makes him self-destructive, and just be in the zone. His dad, well, his dad riles up his students, gets them to tap into exactly the anger and aggression that Robby is trying to overcome. Or at least suppress. 

“Now, let’s say two attackers are coming at you at once. Miguel, Aisha, step up.” 

Miguel gives Robby’s dad an uncertain look. His eyes flicker to Robby and Robby shrugs. Miguel nods. They’ve practiced a few drills together this past week, and have even exchanged text messages (largely Kung Fu Panda gifs). But this is the first contact that’s anything close to a real fight since the tournament, when Miguel deliberately damaged his injured shoulder and lorded his victory over him. 

At his dad’s cue, Miguel and Aisha attack him simultaneously. He doesn’t give them directions as to what moves they should attempt. He lets them duke it out, alert and barking out short, terse suggestions to Robby that are actually helpful. 

Robby has a perfect opening to side-kick Miguel in his lower back, but as he raises his leg, his knee bent, ready to thrust it out full force, he remembers Miguel laying on Mr. LaRusso’s sofa, less than a week ago, and he can’t escape the image of the purpling welts across the very spot he’s about to hit. Robby manages to twist out of the motion at last second, leaving his face a prime target for Aisha, who instead of kicking his jaw, steps back, showing Robby the same regard he showed Miguel. 

And with that uncomfortable pause, with that unwillingness to escalate, the three of them know the drill is over. They look tentatively towards his dad, and Robby huffs out a breath of annoyance, mentally preparing for a comeback to his dad’s inevitable lecture about how his hesitation and compassion will compromise him in a real fight. Maybe Miguel’s the type of guy who’d target an injury to win, but Robby’s not. Not unless it’s a life or death situation. 

Robby’s dad clasp his hands, loud and sharp. “Good work.” 

“What do you mean?” Robby crosses his arms. While his dad’s tone hadn’t sounded sarcastic, Robby can’t be too sure. 

“You took context into consideration when you approached your opponent. Yes, we’re learning self-defense, yes, we need to pratice, but we have to distinguish practice from the real thing. In the dojo, we follow professional rules and a code of honor that’s different from the ruthlessness you will need employ to defend your life in a street fight.” His dad’s eyes flicker to Miguel, and Miguel drops his gaze down in shame. 

His dad clears his throat. “I failed to emphasize this point before. That’s my fault, no one else’s. I won’t make the same mistake again. From now on, we keep in mind the difference between the mat and the street.” He claps him on Robby’s shoulder and walks away, moving on to Sam and Kayla to give them pointers. And Robby’s eyes follow him as a he moves Sam’s arms in the correct posture. What his dad has given him is more of an apology than his self-pitying, half-assed _I’m sorry_ at the tournament _._ Robby thinks it might be the only time in his dad’s stubborn, obnoxious existence that he’s openly admitted he was wrong. 

And Robby respects that. 

o - o - o - o - o

“Robby, we… we need to talk.” 

Robby cringes at those four small words. Because _we need to talk_ always means it’s something he doesn’t want to talk about. Sam is fidgeting with her hands, and that sign is even more ominous than the words. 

They’re standing in the lot outside the dojo, next to one of the vintage cars Mr. LaRusso said used to belong to Mr. Miyagi. Robby didn’t know much about cars until recently. His dad liked cars so he decided he didn’t. He realizes he’s trying to distract himself, thinking about cars, so he forces himself to look at her. 

“I spent all of last year being passive whenever something was wrong. When I got into a hit and run, I kept quiet. When Yasmine was bullying Aisha, I didn’t stand up for her. When Miguel and I started dating, I avoided introducing him to my dad. 

“I care about you. A lot. And as much as I don’t want to hurt you, I don’t want to be passive, either. Sorry. What I’m getting at, as hard as this is for me to say –”

“You like Miguel,” Robby interrupts coldly. He pushes his long blond hair out of his eyes and sucks in a deep breath, willing his anger to stay at bay. Sam has done nothing wrong, and she doesn’t deserve him lashing out. 

Sam fiddles with the curve of her shoe, where the high arch of her foot doesn’t reach the inner sole. “I do. But this about more than Miguel. This is about us.” 

She huffs, gathering her courage. “What I’m trying to say is, I don’t know how to put it. We only ever kiss? And not often. I mean, not that I’m super eager to um, well, you know, jump into things. But it’s been three months since we started dating. And we don’t really,” she waves around her hands, looking for the right words, “do a lot of _dating_ things?” 

Her voice gets pitchy at the end, so her statements sound like questions. She does that a lot, he’s noticed, when she doesn’t want to hurt someone’s feelings or sound too assertive. 

He’s so humiliated and furious he wants to shout at her. To blame it on her, to imply she’s a slut for wanting that. But it’s not her fault, and she’s not asking for anything a teenage girl shouldn’t want. 

He’s humiliated and furious because it’s the truth, and he doesn’t want it to be. 

Robby closes his eyes. He thinks about that cool, quiet place in the woods, thinks about the tree, the callouses on his palms from falling down on the bark so many times. He finds his center. 

He’s not a virgin, he’s had sex with four girls, actually, which he doesn’t think is a too low number for sixteen. He’s never thought about sex as something important or special. It was a way to get off. Something to brag about with the guys. He grew up with the sound of his mom’s bedpost banging against their shared wall and strange men grunting since he was too young to even know what those noises met. Why should sex be a bigger deal than the drunken one-night stand you forget about before the next tequila binge? 

But with Sam it’s different. It _is_ a big deal to her, and Robby doesn’t want to ruin that. She’s his ideal girl – beautiful, funny, smart, athletic, goofy, innocent – and for some reason, all the good things about her are what make Robby incapable of being intimate with her. 

He’s such an asshole, because the moment Sam said yes, all the emotions that had been building up inside him plateaued into nothing. At first he didn’t even know why he stopped wanting her. But now he gets it. He never wanted to be with Sam in the first place. He wanted to be someone Sam thought worthy of being with her. 

He likes the idea of her, what she represents – a happy family, a normal life.

If he’s honest with himself, Robby would rather have a girl who wants to screw him because he’s hot. Sam cares about him in a real way, and he’s not ready for that. He’s so fucked up. 

“Yeah,” he says, defeated. “Yeah, you’re right. Things have kind of…faded out with us, haven’t they? I’m sorry. I really care about you, too.” 

Sam sighs with relief and gives his hand a little squeeze, a sweet smile on her glossy lips. “Thank God you said that!” she exclaims. “I thought it might just be me. Or that maybe I’m a bad kisser and so you’ve been avoiding it? I don’t know. I’m just, well, I just really didn’t want to hurt you…”

“It’s fine,” Robby says, the kindness in his voice for her, not himself, who’s a fuck-up loser, and has managed to ruin another good thing, yet again. “Sometimes the chemistry’s off, even if everything else is right. You took AP Chem didn’t you? You should know better than me then.” He gives her a half smile. 

“It’s like we’re noble gases when we’re around each other,” she teases. 

He’s too stupid to get her joke. Well, maybe not stupid. He was actually put in gifted when he was little, but the older he got, the less he cared about school. And now that he’s enrolled again, he’s repeating Junior year, at North Hills, a much poorer, shittier school than West Valley. Sam and Miguel are in all the same advanced classes together.

“Friends?” Sam asks, voice up-pitched and hopeful. 

He looks down into her huge blue eyes and has no idea how he could have possibly rejected her so many times, so subtly. He pulls her into a hug, smelling the coconut shampoo of her hair one last time. “Of course. Always.” 

o - o - o - o - o

The music is pumping in sync with his heartbeat, and the table lamp above him is glowing ethereally, like a light at the end of the tunnel, like truth within his reach. He traces his fingertips across the carpet, feeling the sensation of the texture bump up and down. He presses his palms against his t-shirt, his face. His fingertips are tingling, leaving a trail of pleasure past everything he touches, and he can see his touch, like sparks escaping a magic wand. His vision blurs and focuses as he looks up at the college kids surrounding him, two girls pressing their bodies to each other as they dance, checking to see if the guys are watching, friends laughing in a corner, frat bros playing beer pong in the hallway to the kitchen, a loner girl markering a Bob’s Burgers coloring book, two philosophy majors talking Kierkegaard and using that as the world’s most pretentious flirtation material.

Even if Robby only got into the party because of an acquaintance of an acquaintance, he can feel that deep down, he belongs to the grand unity of it all, a unity which he can see clearly for the first time. There’s a connectedness here, a deeper meaning, an inner peace like Mr. LaRusso is always going on about, only Robby could never reach it before. This is what he was missing all along – an altered state of consciousness. He’s reaching it now, letting go of his ego, of his anger, becoming one with the universe, and the vibration of his existence is sending pleasure up his spine –

He’s just lucid enough to realize it’s only his phone again. It’s probably his dad for the hundredth time. He rolls over onto his stomach and pulls it out of his pocket to turn it off and sees Mr. LaRusso’s name across the screen. 

“Hey Mr. LaRusso.” 

“Robby? Oh, thank God. Robby where are you?”

Robby looks around and smiles at a guy standing above him, who’s wearing a sombrero. The guy laughs at him. No, not at, with. He’s laughing with him. They’re connected. Like Mufasa said. “Whatever that guy took, I want some of it,” Robby hears him say, and his friends are laughing too. 

“Nowhere,” Robby says. “A house party.” 

“Are you okay? Are you drunk? You sound drunk.” 

“Nah.” 

“Good. That’s good,” Mr. LaRusso says, relieved. 

“I’m high.” 

“Did he just say he’s high?” 

Robby cringes at the sound of his dad’s voice. But then just as quickly, the situation is hilarious. He starts laughing hysterically. “Yeah, I dropped a bunch of Molly. Hear that dad?” Robby shouts into the phone. 

“Robby, your dad and I are driving around looking for you right now. Can you tell me where you are?”

“Give me the phone!” his dad is shouting. His dad curses and there’s the sound of a scuffle, and then, “Robby?”

“What?” 

“I’ve been calling you for hours! Where the hell have you been? I’ve been in a fucking panic since eight. I went to Daniel’s. I went to your mom’s. I found out where those thug friends of yours live and went to their places. Jesus Christ, I was about to check the hospitals. 

“You were supposed to be at my place tonight. I spent two hours figuring how to use that stupid fire remote and rented _Kindergarten Cop_.”

“Well now you know how it feels,” Robby says. “Do you have any idea how many times I waited for you and you never showed up? Screw you.” 

“You think I’m not sorry for that? I am. Okay. I failed you. I get it. But that doesn’t give you permission to ruin your life. Now you better tell me exactly where you are or else –” 

“Johnny I don’t think that’s helping,” he hears Mr. LaRusso plead. “Please, just give me the phone.” There’s another scuffle and a kinder voice calls his name again. 

“Hey, Mr. LaRusso. Man, I’m thirsty.” 

“Robby, can you please just tell us where you are? We’re going to come pick you up, okay? No questions asked. No punishment. We’re coming right now.” 

o - o - o - o - o

By the time they reach him, the last of his high has worn off. The bright colors are faded to a sad sepia instagram filter, and what was hilarious and cheerful is now mundane and empty. Emptier than it was before. There’s no unity, no peace, no meaning. There’s just a bunch of people he doesn’t know who are older than him and don’t even notice that he’s there, they’re too interested in figuring out roundabout ways to trick each other into a meaningless fuck. 

His head is pounding and he’s thirstier than he’s ever been in his life. The muscles and joints in his body feel loose and unconnected, and he can barely lift up his head. He’s curled up, his forehead lolling down on his knees. He’s a loser. A druggy loser who has to repeat the eleventh grade. A second-place loser. A loser whose dad doesn’t want him. Whose mom doesn’t want him. Whose girl didn’t want him, and because of that, his sensei won’t want him anymore, either. 

“Robby.” 

It’s his dad, but it can’t be, because the rage is gone from his voice. In fact, he sounds gentle. 

“Robby, come on, kiddo. Can you stand up?” 

And it really is him, and he really is being nice, and somehow, that’s a thousand times worse than facing his dad’s anger. 

“It’s okay, buddy. Don’t cry. I’m not going to yell at you, okay? Here, give me your arm.” 

And his dad’s carrying him in a bridal hold, and Mr. LaRusso is beside them saying, “try to stay awake, Robby,” and he hears some rando saying _look at that kid, fuuuuuck_ and someone else says _does he even go here?_ and a guy belches, and then Robby passes out. 

He wakes up in the backseat of one of Mr. LaRusso’s expensive cars, with his head in his dad’s lap. 

“How the fuck do you use this goggle thing?” his dad is shouting, and slamming the phone against the back of Mr. LaRusso’s seat.

“Johnny, calm down. I can’t do it while I’m driving. I need to focus on the road and get him to a hospital. Just click on the icon and type _side effects of Molly_ in the search bar.” 

“What the fuck is a search bar?” 

“I’ll show you,” Robby groans, pulling himself up to a sitting position. 

“Shit, Robby. You’re awake. Oh, thank God.” His dad’s hand is pulling back his hair, and he staring down into his eyes like the whole world is about to explode. 

“I’m thirsty.” 

“LaRusso, pull over at that convenience store.” 

o - o - o - o - o

He wakes up with a pounding headache, aching all over. He’s on his dad’s couch, and his dad is sitting on the easy chair, staring at him with sagging eyes that probably mean he’s been awake this whole time. Robby sits up and regrets it. 

“Well, look who’s awake,” his dad says, and he’s back to sounding pissed. 

Robby sighs. There’s no getting out of it. He fucked up. God, he doesn’t even want to remember what an idiot he made of himself last night. It’s bad enough his dad had to see him like that, but Mr. LaRusso too…

Robby pushes his hand through his hair, wiping his long bangs out of his eyes. “Am I in trouble?” 

His dad gives him a cold look. “You sure as fuck should be.” He shakes his head. “Although I don’t know if punishing you is actually going to do you any good. What the fuck was that about, huh, Robby? Jesus Christ.” 

Robby clenches his teeth, suddenly defensive. “Why do you even care? I’ve done Molly before, not that you were around to realize or give a shit. Anyway, it’s not a big deal. You can’t overdose on party drugs. It’s not like it’s heroin.” 

“You can’t overdose? Let me tell you something, kiddo, I know how to search engine now, and you sure as hell can overdose on that shit.”

“People don’t use search engine as a verb, grandpa.”

“Quiet! Do you know that crap burns holes in your brain? It can kill you with _one_ hit.” 

“Well, I’m not dead, am I?” 

“You’re gonna be dead when I’m done with you.” 

Robby forces himself to his feet and storms to the door. As well as he can storm in his condition. 

“Where are you going?” 

“To Mom’s.” He reaches for the knob, but his dad knocks his hand away, shoves him back, and blocks the door. Robby is in no condition to fight him. If he could even take his dad, which he probably couldn’t. 

“Just leave me alone!” Robby shouts. “You’re so controlling and you have no right to be. Mom doesn’t care if I’m out all night.” 

“And that’s just one of a hundred reasons why you should be living with me.” 

After the sounds of their screaming, the ensuing silence has a ring to it. Robby stares at his dad. He drops his hands down against his legs and then drops his eyes. 

“You really want me to live with you?” 

“Yes. Of course. I’ve been pushing your mom on this for almost a year now. But that bitch doesn’t want to give up my child support payments. I told her I’d still give her the money, but she doesn’t believe I would if the court doesn’t force me.”

“Don’t talk about my mom like that. She wouldn’t…that’s not why she wants me.”

“Fine. Yeah, you’re right.” It’s quiet again, too quiet, and Robby feels his heart beat in his throat. “Robby, don’t scare me like that again.” And his dad’s voice is low and broken. “I thought I was gonna lose you.” 

And Robby doesn’t know what’s happening, because his dad is pulling him into a tight, all-encompassing bearhug. He hasn’t hugged him like this since middle school. Robby stands there and takes the hug, unsure of what to do. His dad squeezes him even tighter, and Robby finds himself pulling his arms around the man and tucking his face into his chest. 

“Don’t scare me like that again, okay?” His dad’s voice is shaky, and Robby thinks he might be crying. But he has to be wrong, because his dad would never cry. He’s too macho for that. Too cool for that. 

“Move in with me,” his dad says. “I’m not going to let you down again.” 

His dad is definitely crying. 

Maybe that’s why, for the first time in a long time, Robby believes him. 

o - o - o - o - o

Mr. LaRusso stops by later in the afternoon. His dad “suddenly remembers” an errand he has to run, and leaves them with some privacy. Which is honestly more maturity from him than Robby expected. 

“I’m sorry,” Robby says once they’re alone. His eyes drop to the table. “It was really stupid.”

“Yeah, it was,” Mr. LaRusso says. He huffs. Robby can tell he’s disappointed in him and that’s worse than being yelled at. At least if he were yelling, Robby could yell back and not have to face it. 

“I’m sure you don’t need another lecture about how dangerous those drugs are.”

“My dad reamed me up a good one, so no.” 

“Just as long as you take in the message,” Mr. LaRusso says, giving him a long, concerned look. 

“Yeah, I got it.” 

“I mean it. Don’t do that again. You scared the shit out of us. We both care about you a lot. You know that, don’t you?” 

Robby nods, but he knows Mr. LaRusso is just saying it because he’s nice and he feels like he has to. 

“Robby…I hate to ask, but why did you do it?” 

Robby shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t know.” 

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the truth.” He fiddles with a loose thread. “I guess I just felt like giving up. I’m sick of…failing, I don’t know. I’m not sure if that’s the right word. I guess Sam told you she broke up with me.”

“She told me.” Mr. LaRusso taps his fingers against the table. “Robby, you can’t hurt yourself just because you’re upset. I know breaking up feels like the end of the world when you’re a teenager –”

“It’s not that,” Robby interrupts. 

“Then what is it?” 

“I don’t know,” Robby mumbles. 

“Yes you do,” Mr. LaRusso says, and Robby feels a flash of irrational anger toward him, for not letting him get away with anything, for forcing him to talk when he’d rather just leave it alone and forget. 

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me,” Mr. LaRusso insists. 

And Robby’s vision goes blurry. But he won’t let himself cry. “It’s stupid, okay? I just thought…I don’t know. I thought that if I’m not with Sam, you wouldn’t want me around anymore… For a while, it almost felt like I could be part of your family eventually or something, and when we broke I knew that would never happen. I just…

“It doesn’t matter. I’m messed up.” 

Mr. LaRusso touches his shoulder. “Robby, you already are part of my family. Whether you’re dating my daughter or not. You were my student first. And that bond is for life.” 

Robby stares hard at the table as he nods. 

“Your dad told me you’re moving in.” 

Robby clears his throat. It’s difficult to speak. “We already worked it out with my mom. I’m enrolling at West Valley on Monday.”

“I think it’s a great idea.” 

“You do?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Robby, I need you to look at me, and I need you to listen to me.” 

“Okay.” It takes all of his willpower to lift his eyes up. And there’s so much kindness in Mr.LaRusso’s brown eyes, that Robby doesn’t know if he can take it. 

“I was Mr. Miyagi’s student for life, and you’re my student for life. Nothing will come between that. Nothing. And your father…you know we have our differences. We both know his flaws. We both know he’s messed up in the past. But if there’s anything I know for sure about Johnny Lawrence, it’s that he loves his son. If you need me, I’m here for you. If you need him, he’s here for you too. You don’t have to choose. We both care about you. Don’t push us away.” 

Before today, Robby didn’t even know there was a choice. He would never have believed, with any certainty, that his dad truly wanted him, that Mr. LaRusso’s guidance wasn’t contingent on a thousand circumstances outside of his control. 

He’s never felt this way before. He’s never felt truly and completely wanted. He’s never had the assurance that no one’s going to leave him. He royally fucked up, and still his dad and his sensei were looking out for him, worried about him, carried him when he couldn’t walk. And there’s a weight that’s lifted, in knowing, for the first time, that he doesn’t have to go through this life on his own. That it isn’t him against the world. That he has someone to answer to. He doesn’t have to look over his shoulder and wonder if every good thing he has is going to be ripped away from him tomorrow. He doesn’t have to wonder, every time Mr. LaRusso shows him affection, if this time will be the last. No one’s giving up on him. No one’s going anywhere. 

Robby had no idea a heart could break like this. Break from being so completely, utterly loved it feels like it will burst. 


	8. Ebb and Flow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miguel attempts meditation with Daniel. Miguel’s POV.

“Your strikes are excellent,” LaRusso says. “You have good form, good aim, and your force is powerful and swift.” 

The other students are paired up and practicing drills, and it’s the first time LaRusso is working with him one-on-one. Miguel is frankly surprised the man found it in himself to compliment him. He curls his lip up in something between a smile and a smirk, despite the fact he doesn’t even like the man. Until – 

“But right now, you’re working with one style of karate, and that style can be limiting. Yes, you can punch, and kick, and hit better than most. But what are you going to do against a fighter who’s twice your size?” 

Miguel narrows his eyes at the passive-aggressive dig at how skinny he is.

“Who needs significantly more force and more hits to cause the same amount of damage? I had your build when I was your age. Actually, I was way scrawnier.” 

(Okay, so maybe he’s reading into things.) 

“And let me tell you, no matter how hard you strike, if you’re up against the Incredible Hulk, striking’s not going to be enough to bring him to the floor. Your movements are strong and stiff, and there’s a time for that. But you need to learn how to soften as well. You need to understand the ebb and flow of bodies in motion. Let’s practice working _with_ your opponent's force, not against it.

“Here, hit me. I’ll demonstrate.” 

Miguel aims to strike LaRusso at a forty-five degree angle at the neck. He’s shocked as LaRusso fluidly steps aside with mirrored footwork, catching Miguel’s arm, LaRusso’s movement matching the exact speed of Miguel’s strike. LaRusso continues Miguel’s motion, only shifting the angle of Miguel’s wrist into a twist, and guiding that wrist upwards towards Miguel’s head, so he’s thrown off balance and forced to roll backwards onto the floor. 

It’s similar to a technique Sensei Lawrence had taught him early in his training. LaRusso hadn’t tensed his muscles, and his movements had been more circular than angled. But the difference, though subtle, is immediately apparent. When Sensei Lawrence blocks him, it always hurts, even when he doesn’t use full force. The goal of Sensei Lawrence’s block and twist is to inflict pain on his opponent. The goal of LaRusso’s is to escape his opponent. 

“Now you try.” LaRusso waits until he’s ready (which Sensei Lawrence would never do) and aims to strike him. Instinctually, Miguel completes the technique the way he is already familiar with, going full force, apologizing halfway through as LaRusso lets out a pained hiss and he realizes what he’s done. 

They try it again, and he does the same thing. And again, and he still can’t force himself to ease up, to melt against LaRusso’s strike. 

“You’re still tense,” LaRusso says. “Try to loosen up. Here, let’s relax for a second. Roll your shoulders. Do some stretching exercises.” 

“Yes, Sensei.” It’s hard to get the word Sensei out of his mouth, but he does, more out of respect for the wishes of his real sensei than LaRusso.

Miguel straightens his back. He locks his arm up straight to the ceiling and folds to his side, focusing on long lines and perfect form, forcing the stretch as far as he can go – 

“No, no!” LaRusso is shouting. Not cruelly, but loudly, with lots of expressive handwaving. A few heads turn in their direction and Miguel is momentarily humiliated. He usually picks things up so quickly. He stands at attention. 

“It’s not about executing a perfect stretch. It’s about relaxing your body. Being in tune with it. Loosen up.” 

Miguel tries again, but nothing he does satisfies LaRusso. _Let go of your abs. Drop the tension in your shoulders. Feel how you’re tightening your thighs._

Miguel tries over and over and over again, the simplest, stupidest stretches, and he still can’t get them right. The better he performs the moves, the more LaRusso criticizes. He’s desperate now for Sensei Lawrence to stop in and tell this fraud to quit the bullshit, but it’s not his lesson, and he’s not showing up. 

“Okay Miguel, that’s enough. Let’s try something new. Come outside with me.” 

 

o - o - o - o - o

 

He can’t believe he’s actually doing this. This is more hokey than the namaste yoga idiots who’d sublet the Cobra Kai dojo. 

He’s sitting in lotus position, on the grass by the rock garden and a trickling fountain. LaRusso has him close his eyes like he’s at church and about to recite the Padre Nuestro. 

“Listen to the sound of water,” LaRusso is saying. “Visualize the movement of waves. The ebb and flow, the give and take. Feel your breath. Inhale, exhale. This is how I want you to visualize your movements on the mat. Like a wave, that bends and folds, soft but powerful as it strikes the shore. Now, I want you to imagine a beach, and hold the image of waves cresting in your mind.” 

He tries. And surprisingly, a vidid image comes to him, of an ocean he’s heard about in a thousand bedtime stories, an ocean he’s never seen. 

When his Yaya was a little girl in Ecuador, she’d lived in a small costal town. The shore there wasn’t like out here in LA, with crowds and boardwalks, trash and cement, a thousand retail stores and billboards trying to grab your attention. The way she tells it, it was the most beautiful place in the entire world, with more creatures than you could ever imagine, sea lions and tortoises and dolphins and tropical songbirds, with the clearest water and the whitest sand. 

He’s never been to the country where his mother grew up, where his abuela spent most of her life. Besides other immigrants from church, the only people he knows who’ve been to Ecuador are his rich (mostly white) classmates who went to the Galapagos Islands as part of West Valley’s spring vacation study abroad science program. His Facebook feed last spring was filled with photographs of sunburns and ocean sunsets, endangered animals and expensive bikinis. There’s a photo of Kyler making a karate chop next to a Galapagos tortoise with #ninjaturtles that got 262 likes. The silent, painful jealousy returns. He hates the thought of these rich tourists using his homeland as a backdrop for social media attention. It’s like they’re violating a place that is sacred and _his_ , and it’s not fair he’s never had the opportunity to even visit – 

“You’re tensing again,” LaRusso says. “Rein in your thoughts and find your breath. Listen to the sound of water.” 

Miguel tries. He does. But he’s too riled up, over nothing really. Why should he care where his classmates vacation? The Galapagos are hundreds of miles away from the coast where his abuela grew up. He sees his abuela, a little girl looking out at the water, wearing her favorite blouse that her mother had hand-embroidered. He wonders what the gestapo did with her rosary beads, a family heirloom that she always keeps in her purse. This might be all he ever sees of her again, images he’s made up in his head from her stories. He might never again hear her dry, sarcastic humor. What if he forgets her face – 

“Where are your thoughts?” LaRusso says. “Notice them and let them go.” 

Miguel opens his eyes and the ocean is gone. There’s just LaRusso, sitting beside him and looking concerned. “It’s okay. It’s hard to focus in the beginning.” 

But he doesn’t want to let his thoughts go. His thoughts are worth keeping. His anger and his tension are, too. There’s a lot to be angry about in this world, and letting it go won’t change shit. 

“Fuck it.” 

Miguel stands up and storms out.

 

o - o - o - o - o 

 

“Sensei, you won’t believe the New Age bull LaRusso put me through today in class!” 

Miguel shoulders his way through Sensei Lawrence’s front door, his hands full with barbecue chips, Mountain Dew, and a video cassette tape of Rocky II he bought on ebay. “Oh.” He stops in his tracks, because it’s not Sensei Lawrence who greets him. “Hi Robby.” His face flushes, and he doesn’t even know why. 

Robby stands there, awkwardly shifting from one foot to the other. “Hey Miguel.” 

Miguel peeks behind Robby’s shoulder, like an idiot. “Is Sensei here?”

“Um…no. I’m not sure where he is. I think he’s out on a date? He was acting all suspicious when he left, so that’s my guess. Not to be a jerk but…how did you get in?” 

Miguel tucks his hands into his jeans pockets and shrugs. “We got a key to his place, he’s got a key to ours. You know, we’re neighbors. So. Just in case we get locked out or forget to turn off the stove or something. You know.” 

“Yeah.” Robby coughs. “So was he expecting you?”

“Naw. I mean, no. I just…sometimes I come over on Friday nights?” Which he realizes, belatedly, makes him sound like the biggest dork in the whole world, a loser who has no friends his age. Which is kind of true, now that he’s no longer talking to Hawk. Dimitri’s a constant downer and actually a bit of a snob, and when he hangs out with the other Cobras, it’s more a team or a group thing than a close friendship. 

“It’s like, not set in stone or anything.” Miguel traces his foot against the carpet. “So uh…why are you here? Sorry, that came out wrong. I meant –” 

“Nah, it’s okay.” Robby pauses and meets his eyes. It’s almost a challenge. Miguel doesn’t look away. “I’m actually moving in.” 

Miguel feels his chest tighten and suddenly everything seems very still. 

“Miguel?”

“Oh yeah. That’s great. Good for you. Wonderful. Excellent.” God, why does he always sound like such a loser? 

“Yeah,” Robby says, snidely.

“I should… go.” 

“Wait, is that Rocky II on VHS? That’s the best one.” 

“Yeah, I just had it lying around –”

“Man, that thing is ancient.” 

“I know.” 

“Thank God my dad finally got a fire stick.”

“Wait, he did?” 

And for some reason, that kind of hurts too. It’s bad enough Sensei rejected his mom (probably because of him) and is out on a date with some stranger. It’s bad enough he forgot that Miguel stops by pretty much every single Friday night. Or maybe he didn’t forget, and he just didn’t care. It’s bad enough Robby’s moving in and Sensei’s moving on. He has to go and change something fundamental about himself. 

“Yeah, but he still prefers the VHS player,” Robby says.“Go figure.” 

“Well,” Miguel says. “I should head out.” 

“I’m kind of grounded,” Robby says. “I don’t have anywhere to be, anything to do. So if you’re not busy, and maybe wanted to hang out…” 

Miguel looks at the door. He looks at Robby. “Sure. Whatever.” 

 

o - o - o - o - o

 

They’re yelling at the screen during the final fight (Apollo Creed has just got Rocky good) when Sensei walks in the door. Sensei just stands there, flummoxed, staring at them. Robby grabs the remote and quickly off turns off the TV. Miguel feels like he’s been caught with porn or something, he’s that embarrassed. Not that he’s ever actually been caught with porn. 

Sensei’s face spreads into a shit-eating grin. “Well this is great,” he says, with apumped-up enthusiasm that makes Miguel want to groan. 

“How was your date?” Robby asks. And while Miguel appreciates the deflection so Sensei doesn’t go on and on about how wonderful it is they’re no longer trying to kill each other, he _really_ doesn’t want to know how awesome and sexy the woman Sensei’s decided is better than his mom is. 

“I wasn’t on a date. Is that Mountain Dew?” Sensei grabs the liter bottle and screws off the cap. Robby makes a face as Sensei chugs it right from the bottle, but Miguel’s privately happy that Sensei’s indulging in the drink he’d bought specifically for him. 

“Where were you?” Miguel asks. 

“You were acting all shady when you left,” Robby points out. 

Sensei shakes his head. “Aren’t I the one who’s supposed to ask you two that question?” 

“Answering a question with a question. Yeah, Dad, I know that trick. You’re not getting out this,” Robby says. 

Sensei crosses his arms. “If you have to know, I went to an 80s night at a bar with LaRusso. Only it turned out to be super lame. Just a bunch of college brats wearing neon and dancing to Madonna and Michael Jackson.” 

Miguel pinches his lips. And then Robby bursts out laughing, and Miguel starts laughing too. 

“What?” Sensei declares. “What? What’s so funny?” 

“Nothing,” Miguel forces out between laughs, grabbing at his waist, which is getting a workout. 

“Nothing at all,” Robby says.

 

o - o - o - o - o

 

When Miguel leaves, Sensei walks him to the door. “I’m glad you and Robby are getting along.” 

“Yeah,” Miguel says. 

“He’s going to be starting at West Valley on Monday.” 

“Already?” 

“Well, what did you think? He moved.” 

“I guess I wasn’t thinking.” 

“Just…you know. Look out for him at school, okay? It sucks to be the new kid.” 

“Yeah, sure.” 

“You doing all right?” Sensei adds as an afterthought. 

Miguel shrugs. “Fine.” 

If fine means spending all of his time when he’s not at school or the dojo alone. If fine means growing further apart from his mom because he doesn’t feel like he can trust her anymore. If fine means Sensei being so busy with changing dojos and kissing LaRusso and Robby’s asses that he doesn’t remember they were supposed to hang out. If fine means being so worried about his Yaya that he hasn’t been eating or sleeping enough. If fine means getting a D on his AP US History final and messing up his chances at getting into a good college because he couldn’t concentrate because all he could think about was the truth about his dad. If fine means wanting Sam so bad he literally can’t even stand near her without thinking about sex and feeling like a perv and somehow he’s supposed to practice karate with her and actually touch her. If fine means tensing up and having flashbacks to that beating every time he sees Hawk in the hallway. 

Yeah. He’s perfectly fine. 

“Good, good,” Sensei says, like he’s not even paying attention. 

Sensei pats him on the back and shoves him along good-naturedly, but Miguel can’t help but feel like he’s being dismissed. 

 

o - o - o - o - o 

 

Miguel grabs his history textbook out of the back of his locker and shoves it into his backpack. He’d needed to take a bathroom break and now he had less than three minutes to get his things and run up two flights of stairs, the entire length of the school, and a block down the pavement to catch the school bus. He seriously hopes it doesn’t give him an asthma attack, because that’s the last thing he needs at the moment. Especially considering he no longer has an inhaler. 

“Miguel, hold up!” 

Still in the midst of jerking close his jammed backpack zipper, Miguel looks up and hisses as the zipper yields and pinches his thumb. It’s Sam and Aisha, strolling down from the end of the hallway like they have all the time in the world. Which, upon consideration, they do. You can always tell the kids who have to catch the bus from those whose mommies and daddies buy them cars. The poor kids have to rush, oftentimes forgetting homework or leaving their lockers messy, creating a stampede of black and Latino kids bottle-necking the front doors, while the rich kids loiter around, chatting with the other drivers as they wait for the buses to leave first. 

In fact, the whole bus schedule’s screwed up. Last year, the board cut funding so the buses no longer pick up after school sports, which pretty much means only the kids who own their own cars or whose parents don’t work late can attend practice. 

Miguel sighs, trying to quell the bitterness that’s been welling up inside him lately. It’s not Sam and Aisha’s fault they were born rich. And it’s not even bad thing to _be_ rich, he reminds himself. 

He used to be a happy, easy-going guy. Now, he’s constantly aware of the little things he once shrugged off. Miguel’s not sure if he was just young and sheltered, or if what happened to Yaya has made him paranoid, or if sixteen years of little things have snowballed into one big thing, or if everything really has gotten worse, but he’s suddenly seeing little injustices everywhere he looks. He can’t wash off the grime of the word _deplorable_ , and there’s a simmering resentment in the mess of a thousand other unnamed emotions. 

So he’s already in a bad mood when he sees that Sam looks pissed too. Hopefully not at him. He can’t help but notice her folded arms are covering the small amount of stomach revealed between her crop-top and trendy, high-waist floral print shorts. God, why does his mind always go there with Sam, even when it’s an inappropriate moment, even when he can keep his cool with any other girl? At least it’s a distraction from his previous thoughts. 

Miguel forcefully shifts his gaze away from her waist, and then away from her breasts, but he’s suddenly too bashful to meet her eyes. He meets Aisha’s, and she looks amused at the situation. 

“I thought everything was cool between us,” Sam opens, irritated. 

Yup, she’s definitely pissed at him. And he’s going to miss the bus. 

“Um…everything _is_ cool between us?” Miguel says, not bothering to hide his utter confusion. He throws his backpack over his shoulders and tries not to let it off-balance him. It’s at least thirty pounds. “I think?” he adds. 

“Then why are you acting like a jerk to my dad?” 

Miguel winces. While he hadn’t thought of walking out on Mr. LaRusso the other day as an insult to Sam, she has a point. He’s lost his cool with Sensei Lawrence before, but that’s always blown over after a sharp scolding. He should’ve guessed a pussy like LaRusso would’ve made a big deal of it. Miguel gives Aisha a pleading look, hoping she’ll step in and smooth things over, as the mutual friend. 

Aisha shrugs. “Yeah, you were kind of a dickwad. I heard the whole story.” 

Merciless, that Cobra. 

“Sam, I can explain –” Miguel starts, but that’s about as far as he gets, and he’s left opening and shutting his mouth as he searches for words like an idiot. Because he can’t explain. He doesn’t even really know why he stormed out. 

“I gave you second chance, and already you have to go and be an asshole. Come on, Miguel. I thought you were better than this. Why would you tell my dad to fuck off when he was showing an interest in you?” 

“I didn’t tell him to fuck off. I said fuck _it_.” Miguel says, rushed and defensive. “There’s a difference.” 

Sam crosses her arms. She does not look amused. 

“I’m gonna…go.” Aisha interrupts awkwardly. 

Sam’s anger drops for a brief second when she addresses Aisha. “See you tomorrow?” 

“Tomorrow.” 

Behind Sam’s back, Aisha mimes a finger slowly slicing her neck, as if Miguel couldn’t already tell he was in deep shit. He’s going to text her tonight to tell her what a horrible friend she is. 

Before Aisha’s even out of hearing distance, Sam starts up again. “You know, I asked my dad to get to know you better. I thought there was a chance we would get back together. But never mind. I should’ve learned my lesson last spring. You’re a jerk.” 

She turns and Miguel grabs her arm. Over her shoulder, Sam glares at where his hand grasps her. She could resort to karate if she had to and escape, but she doesn’t need to. Miguel immediately loosens his grip. He hadn’t meant it to be threatening, it was just instinct that made him want to stop her from storming away. 

“I’m sorry.” He lets go of her arm. “I shouldn’t have walked out on your dad. I was frustrated.” 

Sam raises an eyebrow. “Frustrated? You have to give me more than that.” 

Miguel bites down on his lower lip. “I am sorry. I really am. And I’ll apologize to your dad, okay? I like you a lot, but I can’t explain it. You wouldn’t understand.” 

“What wouldn’t I understand?” 

Miguel has no idea where to start. Looking at things objectively, Mr. LaRusso had done nothing wrong. Nothing to spark Miguel’s outburst. But so much rage had accumulated inside him, that Miguel simply couldn’t take it anymore. So he stupidly took out his anger on the man who happened to be in front of him. 

But what can he say to Sam? She doesn’t know about his abuela. She doesn’t know what his mom’s going through. She doesn’t know it’s all he can think about. She doesn’t know he’ll never trust men like her dad, rich white men who brag about their huge contributions to the annual police fundraiser. 

Sam wouldn’t get it. 

“I don’t know,” Miguel mumbles.

“Miguel, I’m really trying here. Please talk to me.” 

He looks up at her eyes, big baby blues, and they’re pleading. He doesn’t know how to open up to her, but he has to. He has to or she’ll walk away. That’s the point of being in a relationship, right? Opening up to someone. 

Maybe he can get away with opening up as little as possible. 

“I’ve just… I’ve just been going through a lot lately. At home. And um… yeah, I guess that’s it. It’s a lame excuse, I know.” 

“Okay,” she says, and it’s a little less annoyed. “Did you want to, um, talk about it?” 

Miguel kicks his foot up against the wall of lockers. He wraps his shoe lace around his finger. “I don’t know.” 

“Not to sound like a guidance counselor, but um, no one’s like, hurting you at home or anything? Right?” 

“No. No. It’s nothing like that.” Miguel’s finger is turning purple, so he unwinds the shoelace. 

“Sorry, dumb question. Just checking.” 

“It’s my abuela. I’m worried about her.” He blurts it out before he can stop himself. There’s something about her that knocks down all his walls. 

Sam’s giving him a look like he’s an injured puppy, and while it means he’s out of hot water, Miguel almost prefers her anger. It’s better than being pitied. “Is she sick? My mom’s mom had a stroke a few years back. It was a hard time for our family.”

He’s ready to go with that easy suggestion. It’s something she would understand. Everybody’s grandma eventually gets sick. But Miguel briefly meets her eyes, and he can tell that she really does cares. He has no reason to lie to her. Well, okay. There are a lot of reasons to lie to her, but he thinks he’d rather take the risk of telling the truth. 

“No. I mean, she could be, but I wouldn’t know. She’s uh… she’s in a detention center, actually. ICE took her.” 

“ _What?_ ” 

There’s shock and disgust and horror in that one word. She actually has tears in her eyes. That quickly. And he can see the transformation in her face. That instant when the blissful thoughtlessness of life – the baseline assumption that everything will always be okay and that people are generally good – is stolen from you. And she hadn’t even know his Yaya. 

There’s a long stretch of silence. “Miguel, I am so, so sorry.” 

He doesn’t meet her eyes. “Don’t…spread it around, okay? The Cobras know, but that’s only because Kreese told everyone.” 

“That man is evil. I will never forgive him for how he hurt you. I hope he rots in hell. I hope the people who arrested her rot in hell.” 

It comes out as angry as he sounds lately, so angry that Miguel’s startled. Sam’s the type of girl who’s always smiling, a forever people-pleaser, breezing through life with her beauty and charm, friendly with the popular kids and the geeks and the stoners all at once. He didn’t know she had that level of anger in her, and it’s powerful. He feels solidarity in the strength of her conviction, in the fact her anger is for him, along with an opposing desire to comfort her, to keep her from ever feeling a single negative emotion. 

“Don’t worry about me,” Miguel says. “I don’t even know why I told you. It’s not like you can do anything about it.”

Sam meets his eyes straight on. “No, I can’t. But I can listen. I can be here. It’s not enough. But I can do that. You don’t deserve any of this. And your grandma doesn’t either.” 

And he thinks, in that moment, he might love her. It happens as suddenly and assuredly as it does in every stupid, unrealistic teen romcom, but it really does hit him that hard. 

Because she didn’t try to justify what happened, or suggest a hundred solutions that he’s already thought of, or recite some cheesy platitude, or change the subject, or act like she could possibly understand. She showed him that she cares. She showed him she heard him. He hadn’t even know that’s what he needed until she gave it to him. The tension he’d been holding in his gut eases up the slightest bit. Nothing is solved. But it’s something. 

Miguel swallows and meets her gaze. “Thanks.” 

They’re staring, and it takes them a few seconds to remember that it’s supposed to be rude to stare. Sam’s eyes flicker away and the magic recedes, just a little. 

“Well, I guess I should get going,” Sam say. 

“Okay.” 

“See you tomorrow?”

“Yeah.” 

“You’re not off the hook for saying sorry to my dad, you know,” she adds. She means it, but her tone is gentle. 

“I’ll call him tonight.” 

Miguel watches her as she walks away, already of thinking of the best way to make amends with Mr. LaRusso so he can ask her out. He’s not going to ruin things this time. He’s not going to let some other, better guy come along and steal her away. (Even if she deserves a better guy.) And then he remembers– 

Miguel jets down the hall and overshoots himself from sprinting so fast, tripping over the orange cone that blokes off the broken drinking foundation. He pushes the cone upright and it wobbles as it settles in place. 

“Actually, could you give me a ride home?” he huffs out. “I missed the bus.” Miguel’s not sure what he did right, but it must’ve been something. Sam’s giving him a smile like he’s not a complete dork. 

For a second, overwhelmed by an entirely different feeling, Miguel forgets all the reasons to be angry. 

 


	9. A Hit Below the Belt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The past is never dead. It’s not even past. – William Faulkner. Johnny’s POV, third person limited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I’m sorry this story is posted so late today. I had a personal crisis to deal with. Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you think.

 

“Miguel, you and Samantha are up.” 

Samantha nods and makes her way onto the mat. Johnny’s actually surprised that she hasn’t given him any trouble since the dojos joined forces. He hates her less than he expected. Okay, so he doesn’t hate her at all. Which is actually very annoying. 

He looks over to Miguel, wondering what’s taking him so long, and sees Miguel giving him a look, eyebrows up, chin tilted as he mouths _what the fuck?_. Like he can’t believe Johnny would do this to him. 

Johnny knows there’s still some teenage drama surrounding his student, his son, and the daughter of his nemesis, but honestly, he couldn’t care less. They’re here to learn how to inflict pain on enemies, how to win a fight. Samantha needs to get used to striking harder and more deliberately, and Miguel needs to learn better coordination and not to neglect his footwork. And fighting each other’s going to bring out exactly those weaknesses. They’re going to make for a fairly entertaining fight, even if it’s obvious Miguel will win. 

“Miguel, get on the mat.” 

“But Sensei –” 

“No _but Sensei_. You and Sam are the only pair that hasn’t sparred yet. It’s been three weeks since we combined classes and it’s your turn. Now hit the mat and show us what you got.” 

Miguel crosses his arms, refusing to step forward. “I. don’t. want. to. hit. her.” 

Johnny shakes his head and tightens his stance. He’s gotta nip this in the bud before Miguel starts talking back to him again. “I don’t give a shit what you want. Get on the mat.” 

“She’s a girl.” Miguel tries, this time sounding more sulky than defiant. 

“Excuse me?” Samantha whips around to face Miguel. Her cheeks flush pink with embarrassment and anger. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“You fought me,” Aisha chimes in. “And lost, by the way.” 

“That’s different,” Miguel says through clenched teeth. 

Samantha puts her hands on her hips. “How’s it different? Are you saying I’m not strong enough to fight you?”

God, Johnny’s sick of the ‘girls can do anything boys can do’ feminist crap. He doesn’t know why the LaRusso brat has to get all defensive. She _isn’t_ strong enough to defeat Miguel in a fight. She’s a good fighter – he’ll give her that. In fact, she’s the fastest of them all, and she can perform the flashiest stunts, too. No one in the dojo can hold a candle on her acrobatics or flexibility. But not only is she years out of practice, she doesn’t have the upper body strength or ruthlessness Miguel has. And she’ll never have them. It’s rare to find a fighter as hardcore as Miguel, even among other guys. 

“That’s not what I mean,” Miguel says, and now his cheeks are burning. 

“That’s what it sounds like,” Samantha snaps, and it sounds like a challenge. 

“Fine,” Miguel grinds out. He steps onto the mat, glaring at Johnny with rage before he turns to Samantha. Miguel loosens his shoulders with a few shimmies and takes a fighting stance. But despite the first rule of Cobra Kai and everything Johnny has taught him, he’s rolling on the balls of his feet, not making a move, and Samantha strikes first. It catches Miguel by surprise, right in the gut. 

“Point!” Johnny calls. 

Miguel recovers quickly. Soon, Miguel and Samantha are moving across the mat in all directions, blocking and sweeping and punching and kicking. They anticipate each other’s moves so quickly and slither out of each other’s attacks so gracefully, it almost looks like a dance. Samantha’s harnessing her anger at being underestimated to excellent results. Johnny crosses his arms and cocks a smirk, impressed. The fight stretches on, minute after minute. It looks like they’re going to exhaust each other before either of them gets another point. 

They’re in the corner of the mat, close to the exit door, when Samantha aims for a back kick to Miguel’s face. It’s a gorgeous kick, a full 80 degree angle to make up for their height difference, and her leg shoots out in perfect force and form. It would’ve been epic had she landed it. 

But Miguel arches out of her reach at the last second and jabs his heel into her standing knee, grabbing her shoulders as her supporting leg buckles. With Samantha’s balance off, Miguel flips her face-up on the mat. She manages to hit him with her airborne leg as she’s coming down because he doesn’t step away quickly enough. Miguel falls down, half on top of her, and in that nanosecond, Sam’s already recovered from her own drop. She pins him efficiently and cleanly. They grapple for about five seconds until Miguel’s upper body strength wins out and he flips their position. With Samantha now trapped under him, it’s the ideal moment for him to make a strike. In fact, Johnny’s waiting to call a point when they abruptly stop fighting, and Miguel shoots off Samantha like he touched a stovetop. 

Over his shoulder, without even bothering to turn around, Miguel gives Johnny a look of pure hatred. “Happy?” he snarls. “Thanks a lot.” And Miguel storms out of the dojo without looking back. 

“Keep practicing,” Johnny orders the class. He shakes his head as he steps outside and chases after his most infuriating student. What the hell is Miguel’s problem, now? He was such a little shit to him when Kreese was around, and while Johnny can understand what was going on then, he’s not going to tolerate another second of Miguel’s lip. 

Especially in front of Robby. 

o - o - o - o - o

“What the fuck was that?” Johnny shouts. Miguel is facing away from him, tearing through Daniel’s cheesy zen garden, his bare feet kicking up rocks as he beelines away, ignoring Johnny. 

“Don’t you dare disrespect me in front of the other students, Miguel. Who do you think you are?” Johnny grabs his arm and jerks him around. 

“Give me a minute!” Miguel shoves himself out of Johnny’s grasp and turns away again. 

Johnny grabs him. “Listen, punk. You don’t tell me what to do. I tell you what to –” 

And as Miguel adjusts his sweatpants, Johnny suddenly understands why he stormed out. 

“Oh shit, kid. Sorry.” He’s vicariously embarrassed and legitimately sorry for like, a second, before he bursts out laughing. 

“It’s not funny!” Miguel growls, mortified. 

“No, it’s hilarious.” 

“Shut up.” Miguel closes his eyes and arches back his head. “Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. I’m never going to live this down.” 

Johnny rolls his eyes. “It happens to every guy your age. I’m sure nobody noticed.”

“Well, don’t be so damn sure. You should’ve seen the look on her face. Why do you think I didn’t want to fight her in the first place?”

“I thought you were pulling some sort of white knight noble bullshit,” Johnny answers honestly.

“What if she tells her dad? I’m dead. I’m so dead. Is it possible to die of humiliation? Lord, please just kill me now. I can never face her again. It’s probably going to happen again.” 

“Miguel, cut the crap. In the future, just visualize your grandma naked or something.” 

Miguel gives him the side eye, and Johnny realizes that bringing up his grandma was probably the worst thing he could’ve done at the moment. 

Miguel lets out a sigh. “You know you really suck at the whole sensitivity thing.” 

Johnny shrugs. “It works, doesn’t it?” 

“That’s not the point.” 

There’s a long hiatus, until – 

“So how are things?” Johnny tries, a little awkwardly. “Your mom all right?” 

“I don’t know,” Miguel says. “Why don’t you ask her?” 

Johnny’s been avoiding Carmen for a solid week. He’s made excuses, about being busy at the dojo, about spending time with Robby…whatever convincing bull he can come up with. 

The last time he saw her, they ran into each other at the apartment parking lot. Miguel was at school so they were alone for once, and they somehow managed to stand in front of her car and talk for two hours. One thing led to another and then Johnny was in her doorway, his arm pressed up against the frame, Carmen underneath him, her back flush against the door. He was seconds away from getting what he’s wanted since he first laid eyes on her, and somehow he found it in himself to back off. 

It was the most self-restraint he’s shown in years. 

There’s nothing hotter than a woman feisty enough to slap him across the face (assuming he has it coming, of course), and Carmen’s slap set him over the edge. He’d liked her before, but he couldn’t get his mind off of her after that. He’d loved it when Ali smacked him all those years ago after that forced kiss, although he would never have admitted to it at the time. He likes chicks who are strong enough not to take his bullshit. Chicks who are stubborn enough to give him a run for his money, keep him on his toes. It’s no fun fighting if you don’t have someone who will fight back. Johnny likes the chase, the challenge.

Which is probably why he’s divorced and alone. 

So as much as he wants her, Carmen is off limits. He can’t let his dick get in the way of things. Or let his feelings get in the way of things, if he’s honest with himself. 

He likes everything about her. How she smells, how she speaks, the curve of her hips, the shade of her lipstick and the way those lips purse when she’s not amused with him. She’s an ICU nurse, which is about the most badass job you can get. And she’s about the most badass person he’s ever met. She left her home, her friends, her family, started life completely from scratch, never letting a single obstacle keep her from providing for her son. 

Johnny, well, he’s spent the last ten years letting life get him down, giving up, failing to provide for his own son. He doesn’t deserve a woman like Carmen. 

If he’s learned anything from screwing up so badly with Robby, it’s that he’s not going to do that again. Not to Robby, not to Miguel. No matter how much of a brat he can be, Miguel needs him. And if Johnny takes it further with Carmen, he’s going to ruin everything. Because inevitably, no matter how good it gets, Johnny will fuck it up. He’ll get drunk too many times, or say the wrong thing, or screw another woman he doesn’t even want because he’s self-destructive. And even if he did do everything right (although there’s no chance in hell), she’s nearly twenty years younger than him and would probably dump his ass for someone younger and more successful.

“I’m not asking your mom,” Johnny says. “I’m asking you.” 

A flash of mistrust crosses Miguel’s face, but it’s gone so fast he wonders if he imagined it. 

“We’ve got a good lawyer working for us now,” Miguel says with a shrug. “It’s crazy though. It’s practically impossible to do anything. There’s like a thousand loopholes ICE can use to keep Yaya locked there as long as they want her.” 

“That’s fucked up,” Johnny says, no matter the rants he’s gone on about illegals in the past. The Diaz family are _his_ illegals, so the rules don’t apply to them. And it’s a pussy move, locking up an old granny who never hurt anyone. Goddamn government overreach. 

He puts a hand on Miguel’s shoulder. “You’re gonna stay strong, okay? Those ICE guys are nothing but a bunch of thugs with small wangs. We’re gonna fight this and we’re gonna win.”

Miguel nods and Johnny knocks his head onto his shoulder, pulling him into a half-hug. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Miguel says. “Fuck those pigs. The only good cop is a dead cop.” 

And maybe the sentiment is earned, but chills run up Johnny’s spine when he hears those words leave Miguel’s throat, in that tone – cold and merciless and so far removed from the earnest boy in braces who came to him, begging for help with his bullies. 

“Dad?” 

Robby comes jogging outside. Johnny would tell him not now, but there’s something to the tone of his voice that makes him look up. 

And the chills don’t go away, because Kreese is standing right behind his son. 

o - o - o - o - o

That man’s hand is on his son’s shoulder. Johnny recoils, his fists curling instinctually, his abs tightening as he tries to force down a sudden lurching in his gut. Somehow, in thirty-odd years, his sensei has barely aged. Kreese should be pushing his seventies, but he’s not hunched or frail, in fact, his muscles are thicker than ever. If anything, age has toughened him, turned him into the sort of rugged, bitter old man no one messes with in Clint Eastwood’s movies. An intrusive image flashes in Johnny’s mind, and that hand on Robby’s shoulder, thick and veined, moves to his neck, pushing his head back, tightenings until Robby can’t speak, can’t breathe – 

Johnny’s arm is still around Miguel’s shoulders, and unconsciously, he tries to pull Miguel in tighter just as Miguel slithers out of his reach, embarrassed to be caught in a hug. 

“Get your hands off my kid.”

Kreese jerks Robby forward and Robby stumbles into the rock garden.

“Well, if it isn’t Coors and Coors Light,” Kreese says as he makes his way toward them. “How quant.” A vicious smirk crosses his face as he eyes the two of them up and down. “Did I interrupt something? I always did think you were a little too attached to the kid.” 

“Don’t be disgusting,” Johnny snaps. He steps in front of Miguel, and Miguel side-steps him. From the corner of his eye, Johnny can see Miguel’s hands pressing up and down against the side of his sweatpants, building up nerve for whatever’s to come. Johnny’s still slightly in front of the kid, and that will have to do. He knows Miguel won’t abide being fully protected. Robby jogs up and stands directly next to him on the other side. Johnny gives his son a hard look, and Robby takes a single step back. Robby’s arms are crossed over his chest, his triceps flexed in a tacit threat. 

Sam and Aisha have followed them outside. His four other students are peering out of the dojo’s back door, assessing the situation. Aisha makes eye contact, and he can see she’s itching to take Kreese down, but Johnny subtly shakes his head no. Sam’s fingers soothe the back of Aisha’s arm, and for once he’s grateful for LaRusso’s restrained “wait for the fight to come to you” methods. He doesn’t want his kids taking up his fight. This is between him and Kreese. 

“What are you doing here, old man?” Johnny asks. 

Kreese stops right in front of him. Too close for comfort. Violating his personal space just to be an ass. Johnny feels a childish need to cross his arms and protect his center, but he knows it will give him a nanosecond of disadvantage if he needs to use them in a fight. So he keeps them at his sides, taut and at the ready. 

“Funny enough, I came to ask you that exact question,” Kreese says, that sneer not leaving his face. Like he knows something Johnny doesn’t.

“What the hell does that mean?” 

“Answer the question. What are you doing here, Lawrence?” 

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

“It looks like you’re getting handsy with your favorite student.” 

“Fuck off, sicko. Only a man like you would think hugging is gay.” 

Johnny once watched a nature documentary on apes when he was too drunk to get up and change the channel, and apparently you should never smile at an ape. Baring your teeth is a threat, a promise of violence. And that’s exactly what it looks like when Kreese turns his smile to Miguel. 

“Looks like those bruises are healing up.” Kreese reaches out to touch Miguel’s eye. Miguel flinches and steps back just as Johnny steps in front of him. Robby steps up, too. Kreese mutters “bitch” under his breath before letting out a chuckle. He turns his head lazily over his shoulder and says, “Good work, Miss Robinson.” 

And now Aisha’s the one flinching, from guilt instead of fear. 

He can feel Miguel shaking behind him, hear the pace of his breath escalate, faster and faster. And he knows all too well what’s happening – the kid’s trying to keep his cool, trying to suppress a panic attack. On the other side of him, Robby is breathing in controlled steadiness. His body firm and upright, hovering protectively over Miguel. He feels a sharp jolt of pride in his son break through his fear and finds courage expanding in his chest. 

He’s never going to let Kreese hurt these kids the way Kreese hurt him. Johnny remembers being thirteen years old, his knuckles black and blue from breaking board after board, that night when Kreese held him back for extra training after class, just the two of them. And he’d felt so, so lucky to be at the receiving end of Kreese’s private attention that he would do absolutely anything the man demanded. 

At the end of the night, when he’d been shaky and exhausted and dehydrated, Kreese had ordered him to do a hundred pushups on his swollen knuckles. Johnny remembers the strain in his back and abs and shoulders and arms. He remembers trembling, red-faced and sweating, the sharp jolts of pain vibrating from his knuckles to the rest of his body as he forced himself past his breaking point. He remembers his arms giving out, tears streaming uncontrollably out of his eyes. But that didn’t deter him. He forced himself back up and tried again. And he did it – all one hundred of them. Even if he had to rush to the bathroom to up-chuck his dinner. Even if he’d collapsed onto the toilet bowl, bright sparks and and black holes dancing around the bathroom stall. 

That night, while Jonnny was curled over a dirty toilet, was the only time Kreese ever spoke of ‘Nam in any real way. Kreese had to make to his boys tough, make sure they survived whatever hellish nightmare life threw at them. Kill or be killed. No one would save you, even if you were sent to a jungle to save the world. Civilians were in denial, but it was at the core of every human interaction, even in the clean-cut suburbs, if you looked hard enough. No one would teach these boys the truth if he didn’t. 

Johnny remembers Kreese putting a hand on his shoulder, telling him he’d made him proud. Telling him he was strong. Telling him he was brave. And Johnny would’ve dropped down and done a hundred more, just to hear him say it again. 

It took weeks for his hands to recover, in fact he’d fractured two bones, but the sickest thing of all was that he’d felt proud of his injuries. He’d felt lucky to be treated that way, because it meant he was special, singled out as better than all of his teammates. To Johnny, Kreese’s attention, no matter how destructive, was a thousand times better than Sid’s dismissal. 

Johnny pokes his finger into Kreese’s chest, taking a power move from the old man’s playbook. “Get the hell out of here,” he snarls. “Now. You have five seconds before I make you. You have no right to be here.” 

“And neither do you.” 

“You don’t get to tell me what to do, old man. I’m not your student anymore. I’m not your employee anymore. I’m done with Cobra Kai.”

“Actually, I do get to tell you what to do, John-Boy.”

Johnny shakes his head, because now he has The Waltons opening theme in his head, and it only makes everything more disturbing. “I don’t think you understand, grandpa. That’s not how it works.” 

“No, I don’t think _you_ understand.” 

Kreese reaches into his leather jacket’s inner pocket, and Johnny forcefully grabs one boy in each arm and slams them behind him, his heart running a mile a minute but time is moving excruciatingly slow. Adrenaline pumps through his body fast and intent and all-encompassing. Even the best martial artists in the world can’t beat a gun. 

Kreese laughs again, and Johnny’s clear-visioned terror settles into a mix of relief and humiliation at his overreaction. Because it’s not a gun. It’s a thick wad of paper stapled at the upper left corner. 

“What’s this?” 

“It’s the non-compete clause you signed when you handed over the dojo.” 

Johnny remembers there was a ton of bureaucratic paperwork bullshit he’d had to sign when all that nonsense was going down. About forty pages worth of small text jargon that meant literally nothing to him, except that he was losing the life he’d built for himself in the past year, and the only way to keep a small part of it, the only way to put a barrier between his students and a ‘roid-rage psychopath, was to the sign on a dozen dotted lines. 

Kreese waves the paper in front of his face, like he’s gained a beautiful victory. 

“What it means, since you never learned to read, is that you can’t teach any form of martial arts anywhere but Cobra Kai for seven years after you’ve left. And you can’t bring any Cobra Kai clients with you to your new place of business, even after that time frame.” 

“What the fuck, that’s not even legal.” 

“Actually, pal, it is. And you signed it.” 

“These kids can practice wherever the hell they want. You can’t control that.” 

“Maybe I can’t, but I can control where and when you teach.” 

“So sue me.” 

“Consider this a seize and desist. A warning. Trust me, Johnny, you don’t want to be out of a job and using all your savings to fund your lawyer. You might be out of a home then, too.” 

“Are you _kidding_ me?” 

“Don’t blame me. Blame yourself. You’re the one dumb enough to sign something you haven’t read. You had a good thing going, but you were too dumb to see that, too. You thought running away was going to magically fix your life? What a pussy.”

“What’s going on?” 

LaRusso shoves his way through the students clustered at the door. He jogs up to them, tense and defensive, and steps beside Johnny, directly in front of Robby. “Get of my property,” LaRusso says, and those words are a threat. 

Kreese holds up his arms. “Sorry little buddy. Just stopping by for a friendly chat with your employee.” 

“He’s my business partner.” 

“Well, not anymore.” Kreese smacks the paperwork against his palm. “Are you aware he’s violating a non-compete clause? Because I could sue you too.” 

LaRusso turns to Johnny and gives him a look of horrified frustration. “You signed a non-compete?” Like Johnny’s a complete idiot. “Why the hell would you do that?”

“Is not like it was a choice, was it?” Johnny snaps, suddenly feeling like a stupid little kid. How is it that everybody knows about this shit but him? 

Johnny turns to Kreese and grabs at the collar of the man’s t-shirt. He jerks Kreese toward him so they’re neck and neck. “Guess you’re too much of a pussy to handle this like a man, huh? Are you too old and frail to settle this the good ole-fashioned way? You need lawyers and courts to do your dirty work for you now? Is that it?” 

Kreese looks down at Johnny’s fist, straining his shirt. He carelessly flicks at Johnny’s hand and it takes Johnny all the restraint within himself not the punch the man out. 

“Those are big words coming from a little bitch like you,” Kreese says, eyeing him up and down. “Think I don’t remember what a pathetic crier you were when you first came to me? You were such a desperate tag-along, and now you’re nothing but a washed-up has been. Look at you, running to LaRusso like a damsel in distress, begging a bigger, better man to rescue you from your mean old teacher. You’re pathetic, Johnny. It makes me sick to even look at you.” 

“You’re the one who’s pathetic!” Johnny shouts. “You need to beat down on teenagers to feel strong. You know, someone wise once told me there’s no bad students. Only bad teachers.” 

Johnny’s eyes shift quickly to LaRusso, who, by the look on his face, hadn’t known Robby’d shared that story with Johnny. 

Johnny turns back to Kreese, his righteous fury renewed. “And you fucking suck.” 

Kreese scoffs. “You honestly think you’re a better teacher than me? You want to prove it?” 

Johnny’s hands are coiled into fists. His teeth are clenched, his shoulders are hunched. He’s going to kill him. “I can take you.” 

“Johnny, calm down,” LaRusso warns. 

“No, no,” Kreese taunts. “Let’s see what he’s got.” 

“Fine,” Johnny says. “We’ll fight right now. I win, you rip up that piece of garbage and leave me, my students, and Miyagi-do alone. You win, I quit teaching karate forever.” 

“Johnny, don’t do this –” 

“LaRusso, stay out of it –” 

“I agree to the terms,” Kreese interrupts. 

“All right then,” Johnny says, bouncing on the balls of his feet, itching for the fight that’s going to end this man’s power over him once and forever. “Come at me, old man.” 

Kreese crosses his arms, and his smirk makes Johnny sick. 

“We’re not settling who’s the better fighter. We’re settling who’s the better teacher. Miguel,” Kreese directs his attention to Miguel. “Are you as much of a pussy as I think you are, or are you up for the challenge?” 

Miguel’s gaze shifts sharply to Johnny, his brown eyes wide. But before Johnny can respond, Miguel faces Kreese. Johnny sees his Adam’s apple slide down his throat as he swallows his fear. “You want me to fight you?” 

“You’re not touching him!” Johnny shouts, knocking Miguel behind him. 

“Don’t get your panties in a twist,” Kreese says. “Of course I’m not. It’s my student against yours or nothing. Miguel versus Hawk.”

“Absolutely not!” 

“But Sensei –”

“No, Miguel! Don’t you dare interrupt.” 

“Let the boy speak for himself,” Kreese says. 

“Leave the kid alone and get off my property,” LaRusso cuts in. 

“NO!” Miguel insists. “Let me talk.” Miguel steps in front of Johnny. “I’ll do it.” 

“Miguel –”

Miguel snaps around, and Johnny can’t bear the look in the kid’s eyes. It’s the same way he used to look at Kreese – the love of a lost boy toward the only man who’s ever paid attention to him, the only man who’s ever acted like a father. Vulnerable and giving and unaware of how much of himself he’s exposing. 

Miguel will do anything for him. The way Johnny would have done anything for Kreese at that age. Johnny doesn’t know if he can handle that responsibility right now. He wants to run from it. He wants to get wasted and give up. He wants to abandon Miguel and let him find some other sucker to be his surrogate dad. He wants to abandon Robby to LaRusso, who’s better for the kid anyway. 

But he can’t give up. He can’t let Miguel fight. He’s not going to use his student the way Kreese used him. 

“Sensei, do you honestly think I’m going to let him keep you from teaching karate?” Miguel asks, gesturing widely with his arms. “How you could think that of me? Karate’s your calling. It’s your life. And I don’t want any other teacher but you. I’ll fight. Let me fight and I’ll make you proud.” His voice breaks, like it always does when he gets overly emotional. 

“Miguel, this is not your fight.” 

“It’s your fight. So it’s my fight.” 

“That’s not how this works.”

“It _is_ how this works.” 

“Kid’s got gumption after all,” Kreese says with a snort. 

“He’s not fighting.” 

“You think I can’t take Hawk, is that it?” Miguel crosses his arms. His eyes turn tear-dropped shaped and his lower lip actually pouts like a fucking Precious Moment. “Is it because of that beating? Because I was injured and that was five against one. I won’t lose again. I promise.” 

“Miguel, this is not about you or your skill. I simply won’t allow it.” 

“Why not?” 

“Don’t question me.” 

“But Sensei –”

“Quiet! My answer is final.” 

Miguel glares at him before dropping his gaze, his cheeks red. And Johnny realizes, a second too late, how Miguel must see it – that he was publicly rejected and scolded. Jesus. Which wasn’t at all what he was trying to do. He was trying to protect him, but course he fucked it all up again. He always says the wrong thing. 

“Miguel…” Johnny tries, gently this time. 

“Whatever,” Miguel answers through clenched teeth. “I get it.” 

Johnny _really_ does not have the time or the patience to alleviate Miguel’s inferiority complex right now. Not while he has to deal with everything else. Losing his career, his students, his self-respect, his income, his whole goddamn life. As long as he can get Miguel to back off from the fight, that has to be good enough for now. He needs to get Kreese away before this escalates further. 

Johnny opens his mouth, but someone else speaks first. 

“Get out off my property, you bastard.” 

LaRusso’s got his back. And despite being the one reining Johnny in, LaRusso’s hands are in fists. 

“ _Now_ ,” LaRusso growls. “And stay the hell away from these kids.” 


	10. Mortal Combat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miguel is tested. Miguel’s POV, third person limited.

Miguel’s phone buzzes and he pulls it out of his pocket. _Too pussy to fight?_

It’s Hawk’s number. He’s going to ignore it. He’s going to listen to Sensei Lawrence. 

He flicks his finger up the screen, flashing through the history of their friendship in backwards order. He knows he shouldn’t, but at least it’s not texting back. He looks at the crude memes they’ve sent each other, the boring homework questions, the karate scheduling coordination, the inside joke about Doritos they reference over and over… He stops at a selfie of them together. Miguel’s making a muscle, half-ironically, his smile wide, and Hawk’s sticking out his tongue, one hand slung around Miguel, one hand raised in metal horns. His blue hair is wet and flat because it was taken just after they’d showered following the tournament. Miguel remembers how good it felt, to be a champion. To be part of a powerful team. The two of them were like brothers, the day of the All Valley, the months leading up to it when they’d trained and sweated and bled together. Which makes it that much worse.

He feels his stomach recoil in hatred at the sound of Hawk’s words, humiliating him for his reduced lunch. He winces at the thought of Hawk crushing his crotch with his heel, the sickening memory almost as real as the first time around. 

His phone vibrates again, and he has to scroll all the way down to see the new text. 

_So much for being loyal to Lawrence. Isn’t that why you left CK in the first place? You’re really gonna let him lose everything because you’re not man enough to fight?_

Miguel checks to make sure the coast is clear, but of course it’s clear. He’s home alone. He’s still not used to being home alone. 

Screw Sensei Lawrence’s overprotective bullshit. He’s a better fighter than Hawk. He can win this. He’s going to destroy the bastard. Hawk and Kreese both. He’s going to make sure no one ever messes with him or Sensei ever again. No mercy. 

_I’m in._

_Fucking A!_ Hawk texts back. _I knew you’d be in._ Miguel rolls his eyes at the tongue-out emoji. Who does Hawk think he is? Steve Tyler?

_If I win, Kreese leaves Sensei Lawrence alone,_ Miguel types. _No lawsuits. No contact. Nothing. He rips up the paperwork._

_That’s the deal._

_Who’s referee? We need someone neutral._

_Referee? Did you forget the /s? No referee. We’re not fighting for points. It’s FTW._

_What determines who wins?_

_The person who remains standing._

_When and where?_

_Lot behind CK, midnight this Sunday. Keep it on the DL. It’ll just be me and Sensei Kreese. Bring a second._

He can’t tell Sam. He would never put her in danger. He can’t tell Sensei Lawrence. He’d made it clear that he absolutely forbids him to enter this fight. He can’t tell LaRusso, whose non-violence mantra is laughable. 

He remembers lying on the sofa, Robby handing him more painkillers than an adult would allow. He remembers the pact that they’d made to look out for Sensei. To stand up to Kreese. To keep each other informed. 

_I’m doing it,_ Miguel texts Robby. _You in as my second? Don’t tell anyone._

o - o - o - o - o

Even in the nighttime November air, the stench of garbage pervades the vacant lot behind the strip mall. Miguel can feel the gravel roll beneath the thin soles of his Converse, and he wraps his arms more tightly around himself, his hoodie pulled up to block out the wind. Maybe acid-washed skinny jeans aren’t the best pants to wear to a street fight, too restrictive normally, but his have become loose over the last few months. He’s nearly as underweight as he was when he first met Sensei Lawrence, before he built muscle mass from his training. He hasn’t been eating enough, and he isn’t in his best shape, but it’s too late to turn back now. He’ll have to face Hawk as he is. At least he looks cool in the jeans (he’d seen a photo of Sensei in the same style) and the formless hoodie disguises most of the weight loss. 

Robby’s walking beside him, and from the corner of his eye, Miguel can see the cautious way Robby looks over his shoulder, using his body to half-block Miguel. Miguel doesn’t need a protector, and it’s a little irritating, but it’s reassuring, too, knowing that Robby has his back in case Kreese tries to pull any shady shit. 

It’s weird, but he’s feeling oddly nostalgic about the lot. Sometimes, before the other students signed up, he’d hang out here with Sensei while Sensei drank a beer and gave him life advice. Sensei would toss his litter into a pile next to the long line of garbage bins, never missing his shot. Miguel used to pick them up and sort them into the correct recycling containers, but after a while, he gave up on it, and there’s a pile of Sensei’s beer bottles and crushed cans, like a drunkard’s cairn. (He was proud of that word when he thought of it – it’s an SAT word.) Miguel misses that time, before Robby was around, before Aisha and the others were around, when it was just the two of them. Back when Sensei had faith in him. Now, he doesn’t even trust Miguel to win this fight. 

He misses the old dojo, the stenciled snake on the wall, the motto, the bold colors bordering the room. He even misses the smell of stinky feet and sweat and too much Axe deodorant. He doesn’t know what LaRusso does, but that place always smells like cedar and lemon. Which should technically be nice, but it’s just…less real to him. He misses hanging out after class and grabbing a slice of pizza at the minimart where Sensei first saved him. How could everything have changed so much in so little time? 

Miguel’s going to prove himself tonight. Even if Sensei has forbidden this, he’ll make the man see the error of his ways. He’s going to make his teacher proud. And then everything will be back to normal between them. 

The homeless woman who used to hang out outside the dojo’s strolling around and she gives him a nod. “Haven’t seen you around in a while. Hey, are you selling?”

“Um…no? Why would you think that?” 

“The covert midnight meeting,” she says, and strolls past them, whistling. She’s already high. “But mostly the hoodie. Makes you look like a dealer. Got meth?” 

After a brief, absurd image of a public service _Got Meth?_ poster, Miguel thinks about his dad, and wonders who else looks at him and sees nothing but a gang banger. Nothing but a suspicious brown kid in a hoodie. He wonders how much of their prejudice and assumptions are just shy of the truth. Maybe he’s never actually seen hard drugs in person, or smoked more than one puff of pot with his Yaya, but his dad’s a kingpin, so there’s that. Stereotype confirmed. 

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” Robby says, jiggling his keys in his pocket. He’s antsy, and so is Miguel. It’s three minutes to midnight and Kreese and Hawk haven’t shown. They’ll probably show up late on purpose to psych him out. 

“I do have to do it,” Miguel says, even though his stomach’s lurching and he doesn’t want to. “I have to protect Sensei. After everything he’s done for me, I’m going to return the favor.” 

Robby gives him a reluctant nod. “If you’re sure.” 

“I’m sure.” 

“Because he doesn’t want you to do it. And I’m starting to agree.” 

“Are you losing your nerve?” 

“Maybe,” Robby admits. “I just…I have a bad feeling about this. I don’t trust Kreese to play fair.”

“Me either.” Miguel swallows. “But that’s life, right? Nobody plays fair.” 

Miguel jumps in place at the horror-movie creak as the back door of the dojo opens. Kreese exits with Hawk at his heels. He wonders how long they’d been waiting there, if they’d overheard their conversation. 

“Well, look who bothered to show up. I’m impressed, Taco. I didn’t think you had it in you. And you even brought your boyfriend. Cute.” 

Miguel crosses his arms and glares at Kreese. “There’re two of you. It’s only fair.” 

Hawk jerks his head up at him in a “too cool to actually speak to you” greeting. His infamous mohawk is gelled spikey and tall, and he’s shirtless, the tattoo sprawled across his back displayed like warrior paint. He’d started out scrawnier and dorkier and meeker than even Miguel had ever been, but he’s been getting more and more cut since he’d first joined Cobra Kai. Now, it’s just absurd. Hawk is _ripped_. Nobody can gain that much muscle that fast naturally. 

“Last chance to back out, Miggy.” Hawk spits out Miguel’s mom’s pet name for him with derision. 

“I’m not backing out.” 

Hawk sucker punches him in the gut, knocking him straight into Robby. “Good.” 

Robby instinctively catches Miguel and tries to help him up, but Kreese snatches Robby’s arm and tugs him away from the brawl. 

“One on one,” Kreese says, at the same moment Hawk aims a sidekick to Miguel’s crotch. 

Miguel catches his heel, twists sharply, and flips Hawk to his face on the gravel. As Miguel’s readjusting his stance, Hawk sweeps his leg against Miguel’s ankle, grabs his tumbling form for purchase and the two of them beat into each other, messy and raw and dangerous. Miguel gets a good one to Hawk’s mouth and snarls, “Too bad no one will notice the difference, Lip.” 

“You’ll pay for that!” Hawk grabs him by the front of his hair and slams the heel of his palm into Miguel’s nose. Everything goes black for a second, and the lower half of his face is warm and wet, and then the pain kicks in full gear. His nose is definitely broken. He can’t even breathe out of it. 

He hears Robby begging him to stop in the background. But fuck if he’s going to let Sensei lose his life and livelihood to these evil shitheads. Miguel blocks Hawk’s undercut punch and kicks in his knee as hard as he can. Hawk’s scream is sharp and high pitched. 

It’s not like fighting in the dojo or a tournament. There’s no one to call a point or time out. There’s no rules to violate, no form to show off, no guidelines for sportsmanlike behavior. It’s two guys slamming into each other with all their hate, doing whatever it takes to take down the other. 

As Hawk comes down, he grasps Miguel’s arm and jerks it out of its socket and they’re scrambling in the gravel, attempting to pin one another as they knock over a trash can and the rotten waste spreads out over the ground. They roll in it, punch in it, kick in it, and Miguel’s gut lurches at the stench of bad meat but he continues anyway. And despite using every last ounce of his strength, every last ounce of his energy, Hawk throws him at last, slamming the back of his head into the gravel, jamming his knee into his gut so he can’t breathe at all. Hawk holds his neck down with one hand and jabs his fist into Miguel’s ribcage with methodical repetition. 

Miguel can’t focus, the pain is too strong, he can’t think about anything but how helpless he is. But he needs to hold on, he needs to figure out a way to get out of this, a last vestige of strength to reverse their positions, he needs to win, the stakes are too high to give up – 

“Get off him! Stop! Stop!” Robby’s screaming, and he sounds very far away. 

He sees Kreese standing over them, a shit-eating grin spread across his face, but the man goes out of focus and Miguel realizes he’s crying from the pain. 

“Is it over?” Hawk asks, and he stops his strikes. “I think he’s had enough.” Miguel can’t believe it, but he almost sounds concerned. 

“It’s not over until he admits defeat,” Kreese says. 

Miguel rolls his face away so at least he doesn’t have to look at Kreese when he says it, and there’s Sensei’s pile of discarded beer, just inches away from his face, blurring in and out of focus. He blocks out the memory of the two of them together out here, that time Sensei showed him a block and brought him to the ground, and Miguel panicked about tetanus and Sensei laughed. He can’t think of it. Not when Sensei will never be able to teach him again. It’s all his fault. Sensei will be so ashamed of him. He hates himself. 

“I give up,” he chokes out, and Hawk releases his neck and sits back on his heels. Miguel curls into a fetal position, and now, he isn’t just crying from the pain.

“Miguel,” Robby’s saying, “I called my dad like ten minutes ago. I’m sorry I told him, but I had to do something. He should be here any second. Okay? Okay? Miguel?” 

And as he’s saying that, there’s the sound of fast, heavy footsteps, and he hears Sensei’s voice, calling out his name from the other end of the lot. 

Kreese turns in the direction of Sensei and his chin raises, like a lion looking up from the carcass it’s devouring. And Miguel can see he’s pleased. He’d wanted Sensei to come all along. He’d wanted Sensei to see Miguel defeated. 

Kreese turns back to Miguel as Senei runs to them. “You’re a pussy, just like as I always knew. Look at you, curled up and crying like a baby. Little bitch.” He kicks his lower back and Miguel does nothing to defend himself, he just curls up even tighter. 

“Sensei, look at him. He’s had enough –” Hawk says, nervous. 

“And to think, you let the guy who called ICE on your grandma defeat you.” 

Miguel’s whole world goes suddenly still, and there’s a high-pitched ringing in his ears. 

“ _What_?” Hawk shouts. 

Miguel somehow manages to sit up and drag himself to a stand, and very calmly, he stares at Hawk. He’s calmer than he’s ever been in his entire life. All the pain he’d felt only seconds before has miraculously disappeared. 

“You were the one who called ICE?” He doesn’t recognize his own voice. 

But of course he was. Hasn’t Hawk been going on for months about illegals and taxes and job-stealers? 

Despite his arrogance only moments before, despite the fact Hawk won, he’s terrified. He’s stepping back. “Miguel, it wasn’t me, he’s just starting shit –” 

But it was. It had to be. Miguel reaches down and grabs one of Sensei’s littered Coors bottles by the neck. It’s still intact, but not for long, because he smashes the base against the gravel, and the lower half shatters. 

Hawk holds out his hands in supplication. “Miguel, you have to believe me –” 

With supernatural speed, Miguel grabs Hawk’s signature blue hair, jerks his head back, and holds the long shards of the broken bottle against his jugular. He presses in so the glass pierces his skin. 

“You’re dead,” he says, only now, the fury is back in his voice; it’s choked up from the blood and tears streaming down his face. A little more pressure, and Hawk _will_ be dead. 

He deserves to die. 

“Miguel, put the bottle down.” 

It’s Sensei. He’s standing right there, right in front of him. Miguel hesitates. 

“He’s the one who got Yaya locked up,” he says, his voice breaking. “She’s going to be deported because of him.” 

“Don’t do this,” Sensei says, his voice firm and commanding. But Miguel doesn’t have to listen to him. 

It would be so easy. All he has to do is strike upwards. He won’t even have to do it that hard. And then justice will be served. 

“Miguel,” Hawk whimpers. “Come on, man! We used to be friends. You have to believe me. I like to rile you up, you know? That’s it. That’s all it is, just jokes. I don’t even really believe that shit, I just like pissing off our sheltered, shallow classmates. I would never actually do that to you! You know me. Come on, please.” 

Miguel doesn’t believe him. Not by a long shot. 

But the sound of fear in Hawk’s voice sends chills up his spine. And at the mention of _friends_ , he thinks about every time they’ve goofed off after practice, every stupid text they’ve shared, every inside joke, every study session. He thinks of the time before Eli transformed into Hawk, after school one day at Dimitri’s, when Eli couldn’t take the bullying anymore, and he’d cried in front of them. And Sensei is looking at him like no man has ever looked at him before, like he’s scared to death. But not for Hawk’s sake. For Miguel’s. 

Miguel lets Hawk go and drops the bottle on the ground. His knees give out, his adrenaline gone. 

“You fucking psycho!” Hawk shouts, and Miguel thinks he’s shouting at him, until he sees Hawk shove Kreese in the chest. “Why the fuck would you lie about something like that? Did you want him to kill me?” 

Kreese laughs and pats Hawk on the back like it’s all a big joke. “It made for good entertainment. Didn’t it, Johnny?” 

And Miguel realizes with revolting clarity that Hawk hadn’t been lying. He’d nearly killed him, and he hadn’t even done it. 

“You’re sick,” Sensei is saying, and he’s standing in front of his three students, his arms stretched out to the sides to cover all of them, creating a barrier Kreese will have to fight through to get to them. Robby’s picking Miguel up, helping him to his feet. 

“Well, I might be sick,” Kreese says, “but you’re done teaching karate forever.” 

“No. You are.” 

It’s Hawk, but he sounds more like the old Eli. His voice is soft and uncertain, like it used to be last year. And still somehow, speaking those words at all is a new kind of strong. 

Everyone turns to him.

“What are you on about?” Kreese demands. The humor has dropped from his voice, so all that remains is the threat under the laughs. 

“You’re closing the dojo and leaving town forever,” Hawk says, “or I’m going to tell the police you did this to me.” He gestures to his face, which is a wreck. Miguel got his mouth better than he’d thought. 

“After everything I’ve done for you –” Kreese says, his voice low and gravelly. 

“You tried to get me killed a second ago.”

“It was a joke. You can’t take a joke? Don’t be a whiny bitch –”

“If that’s your idea of a joke, fuck you. I’m going to the police.” 

“You honestly think they’ll believe the lies of some punk kid with stupid hair?” Kreese scoffs. 

“I’ll tell them you beat me up, too,” Miguel says, or tries to. It’s hard to speak with a broken nose. “Corroborating stories from honor roll kids – who do you think they’ll believe? Especially when they ask the other Cobras? Think Aisha or anybody else is gonna stand up for you?” 

“I don’t think you want to land in jail for child abuse,” Robby adds, voice cold. “I hear that doesn’t go down so well in prison.” 

Kreese ignores the rest of them and turns to his last student, his voice as kind and fatherly as it had been mocking only seconds before. “Hawk, buddy, don’t let these pussies influence you. Come on, man, we had a good thing going. You’re like a son to me, you know that, I chose you –” 

Hawk stands there silently, his arms crossed. 

Miguel can see the moment Kreese realizes nothing he can say will change a thing. His face shifts, from paternal, to shocked, to dangerously pissed within the time frame of a second. If the shift hadn’t been so sudden, his affection would’ve been entirely believable. Kreese is the best liar Miguel has ever met.

“Fuck this!” Kreese shouts. “Every single one of you is a loser. I’m done with this town. I’m done with you pussies.” 

And Kreese turns away, cursing and muttering to himself, kicking up gravel and punching the air, like a toddler in the midst of a tantrum, leaving without even a fight. 


	11. Stupid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johnny schools the boys. Carmen schools Johnny. Johnny’s POV, third person limited.

 

“Stupid, stupid, stupid!” Johnny slams his open palm against the steering wheel in time with each word, pounding out with the angry passion of a hair metal drummer. “All three of you boys are stupid. Except you, Robby. You’re only half stupid. Next time, instead of calling me after it’s too late, don’t be a dumbass to begin with. Hear that?” 

“You’re really getting better at compliments, Dad,” Robby deadpans. 

Johnny whips his neck to the shotgun seat of his car and glares at his kid, even though a part of him appreciates Robby’s attempts at keeping things light. There’s nothing light about it, though. 

_Boys._ Was he ever that idiotic when he was a kid? He thinks about the time he and the other Cobras pushed Daniel on his bike down a steep incline, and the unfortunate answer is yes. Yes, he was. So he doesn’t technically have a right to be scolding them, but that sure as hell isn’t stopping him. He’s irate and relieved, and irate that the relief is getting in the way of him going ape shit on these kids. He needs to be angry enough that they’ll be too scared out of their minds to do anything like this ever again. 

When did he become the person on the other end of this conversation? At what point did he turn into the lame adult who shows up useless and too late at the end of the movie, like in _Home Alone_ and _The Goonies_?

“What were you two thinking, fighting like that? This isn’t one of your stupid video games. You don’t get to start over when you die. You just die.” 

Hawk, the little shit, is doing his best to look bored out of his mind by Johnny’s lecture, pretending like he isn’t traumatized. For all Johnny knows, he isn’t. From the rearview mirror, Johnny can see him wiggling a loose tooth with his tongue. But he can’t be too angry at him, not after he stood up to Kreese. Something Johnny hadn’t been able to do for years. Miguel at least looks shame-faced. 

“You have no excuse to resort to that level of violence in a planned match. That type of fighting is for life or death situations only. What were you thinking?” And now he’s repeating himself. 

“Sensei, I had to defend you,” Miguel answers firmly. 

Which is somehow so childish and so mature at the same time that Johnny doesn’t know whether he wants to slap some sense into him or give him a hug. Probably both. 

Hawk shrugs. “To be honest, I just wanted to let off steam. I didn’t think it would go that far, though.” His tooth pops out of his mouth and lands somewhere in the pile of fast-food trash on the floor of Johnny’s car. Hawk stares at Miguel for a second, face unreadable, and Johnny’s ready to abruptly pull over and stop another fight, until Hawk lets out a chuckle. 

“Think the Tooth Fairy will give me a dollar?” 

Whatever animosity was between them (okay, hatred), Hawk is throwing away with a friendly shoulder nudge to his companion in the back seat – the same guy who knocked out that tooth. Miguel curls up the corner of his mouth, half pleased with himself, half accepting Hawk’s olive branch. Still mistrusting.

“You were pretty badass,” Hawk continues as he wipes the blood off his mouth. “Seriously, a broken bottle? That was a vintage street move right there. I guess you _are_ a Jet all the way.” 

After a moment of hesitation, Miguel shoulders him back. “Damn it, Hawk, I was trying to suppress that memory. Now I’m never going to get that song out my head.”

“That wasn’t even the worst part. When Wendy Sanders sang _I Feel Pretty_ , _I_ felt suicidal.” 

Johnny shakes his head, astonished and possibly a bit disgusted. “Are you two seriously discussing a high school musical at a time like this?” 

“Um…” Miguel says. “Yes?” 

“Hawk, you’re spitting out teeth. Miguel, I just set your goddamn nose.” Johnny shakes his head. “Natural selection is lie.” 

Robby laughs, but he pinches his lips together in a firm, serious line when Johnny shoots over another glare. “You are not exempt from my wrath either, buddy.” He points at him and accidentally speeds through a red light. “You’re grounded.” 

“That’s not fair! I called you!” 

“And that’s why you’re only grounded for the weekend instead of the rest of your life.” 

“Sensei, you missed my turn,” Hawk announces. 

At least he called him Sensei. 

 

o - o - o - o - o

 

He drops off Hawk and waits for him to get inside, and like a coward, he is quietly grateful for the fact Hawk has his own set of keys and there are no hysterical parents waiting at the door. Johnny doesn’t have the energy to deal with another delusional mom who thinks her precious baby can do no wrong. Now that his business has been on the straight and narrow at Miyagi-do, with signed permission slips and release of liability forms and other bullshit, Johnny actually has to deal with parents. After dental work and attitude adjustment, Hawk’s going to be just fine.

He’s cooling down some, and even though he’s still pissed at the boys, he’s proud of them too. Not that he’d admit it. He’s proud of Robby, for coming to him when he needed him. He’s proud of Miguel, for standing up for him, for reining in his rage, showing mercy, even when the kid was certain his opponent had done the most heinous thing imaginable. And he’s proud of Hawk, for seeing straight after a couple months when it took Johnny years to acknowledge the truth about Kreese. 

 

o - o - o - o - o

 

He opens the door before she even has a chance to pound on it. He’s been up waiting for this, hanging out on his sofa flipping through infomercials and true crime late night TV, pretending like he wasn’t looking out the window, watching the slits between the blinds turn from black to blue to pink to white as he waited for her, a tight knot in his gut. 

“I’m sorry,” he says and the slap stings his face before the words can finish leaving his mouth. 

Her eyes are bloodshot and she hasn’t changed from her scrubs. “How much more does my boy have to take?” she growls. She grabs him by the front of his t-shirt and throttles him, and the door rattles as he smacks against it. “How many times do I have to come home to him like this before I realize the problem is _you_?” A sob escapes her throat and it takes everything inside him to look at her, to face this. “He was fine before you came along. Fine. And you,” she shoves him, “you taught him to fight. You taught him to be angry. You, with your outdated, toxic macho bullshit. I _trusted_ you. His nose is broken, his whole face is black and blue, he hasn’t even finished healing from last time, and I can’t take him to the hospital because I don’t trust CPS not to steal him from me.” 

“Carmen, ” Johnny whispers, throat catching, “you’re right, you’re right. I’m so sorry.” 

“You’re sorry? You’re going to be sorry!” 

Shit, he has to hold it together. He can’t show her that her angry tears are destroying him. That he’d get down on his knees and beg her to forgive him if it would do any good. “I failed him,” he says. “I tried to protect him, but I failed him.” 

That catches her off guard, and for a second, her fury disappears, leaving only the motherly terror that ignited it. She releases his t-shirt, but her crossed arms are only mildly better. He did this. He caused her pain. He caused Miguel’s pain, if you stepped back and looked the dominos. 

“What happened this time?” she asks. The anger is still there, rumbling under a new layer of doubt. “He only told me he got in another fight. I wanted to let him rest, so I didn’t, I didn’t press him.” 

Johnny sighs, pulls a hand through his hair. “It wasn’t just another fight. Do you want to come in?” 

Carmen’s jaw is clenched and she’s glaring at him, but eventually she gives him a terse nod. 

He makes her a cup of coffee, stale Folgers from yesterday that he reheats in the microwave. She’s sitting on the sofa, her arms folded over her waist. When he hands the coffee to her, she makes a disgusted face and leaves the cup untouched in the center of his coffee table, next to, unfortunately, a spread-open copy of the latest Victoria Secret catalogue, addressed to the previous resident. He’s never felt like more of a loser. 

“I can make a fresh cup –” 

“Just explain,” she snaps. 

Johnny doesn’t bother to sit down. He couldn’t remain still even if he did sit, so he paces. “Miguel fought without my permission,” he begins, “trust me, I’d forbidden him, and I thought I’d gotten through to him. But even if I told him not to, he fought for my sake. So it’s my fault. I take responsibility –” 

“What do you mean he fought for your sake?” Carmen interrupts. 

“I don’t know if he told you much about what was going on at Cobra Kai, with Kreese –” 

“He said your old instructor was teaching there, and that you had ‘artistic differences’ which is why you combined dojos with another instructor. I assumed there was more to the story, but to be honest, I’ve had a lot on my plate, and no time to worry about something as trivial as local karate politics.” 

Johnny swallows. “It’s bigger than that. Kreese, turns out he owned the Cobra Kai name or whatever. I got a lawyer – it doesn’t matter. The point is, I couldn’t get rid of him. I didn’t even own my dojo anymore. I hate that man, but I stayed at first because…” he pauses, straining for a diplomatic way of skirting the truth. “Because I don’t agree with his teaching methods.” It’s a cop ou. 

“What is that supposed to mean?” Carmen demands. 

Johnny’s pacing is growing faster. “I didn’t want to leave him alone with the kids. He taught me when I was their age, and he’s…he’s harsh.” 

“Harsh?”

Johnny squeezes his eyes shut and forces out the word. “Abusive.” There’s an indiscernible noise – a hitch in her breath, perhaps. He opens his eyes and stares at her, forcing himself to admit it. She deserves the truth; it’s her son who got hurt. “He was a sadistic asshole then, and he’s a sadistic asshole now. He’s not even physical with the kids anymore, but he… he messes with their minds. He’s fucking poison – pushes them too hard, turns them against each other…” 

Johnny can’t hide his shame. He feels his shoulders slumping and he knows he looks pathetic, sounds pathetic. He’d told LaRusso his story, but he hadn’t used wimpy, whiner words like _abuse_. Abuse is for victims, and he’s not a victim. He doesn’t want Carmen to think he’s some helpless loser, or that he ever was. He can’t stand for a beautiful, strong woman to sit there on his couch with her arms crossed and look at him like he’s weak. 

“I thought if I stayed, I could protect the kids,” he says, and he knows he’s talking too fast, repeating himself, rambling. “I was wrong. So me and LaRusso opened up the new dojo together. Which was working fine until Kreese threatened me. He promised to leave Cobra Kai alone if Miguel beat another boy. He was just using Miguel to get to me, because he knows… he knows Miguel’s my favorite. I made Miguel promise he wouldn’t fight. Obviously he didn’t listen. And I got there too late.” 

God, he wishes he could skip past this excruciating moment of starched silence. He wishes she would get back to screaming at him, storm out in a rage. It’s better than not knowing what she’s thinking. It’s better than her quietly judging him as less than a man. 

“We can’t make decisions for them, can we?” she asks at last. She sighs, and then her words are firm. “Miggy chose to fight, defying both of us and putting himself in danger. He’s sixteen. He knows better. His anger has been out of control lately, for good reason, but… His behavior is out of line and he’ll hear from me when I get home. I promise you that.” 

“Don’t go too hard on him.” Johnny finds himself immediately defending his student before his brain can catch up. “He had good intentions. He’s a good kid. Every boy his age makes dumb decisions. Besides, it’s still my fault. He would have never met Kreese if it weren’t for me. Don’t blame him.” 

Carmen gives him a long, hard look. Eventually, she turns away. “Don’t blame yourself. You’re not responsible for Kreese’s actions. And when your past comes back to haunt you, you face it. That’s what you did.” 

He knows she’s not only talking about Kreese here, but her own ex-husband. He can bet she’s had to give herself that speech a lot lately. 

She stands, grabs her purse from the coffee table, and takes a moment to smirk at the catalogue spread, where a model dressed in a turquoise-sequined bra and thong set looks more like her than Johnny cares to admit. She seems more amused than offended, though. So at least he’s spared a lecture about objectification or some shit like that. 

She probably hates him for putting Miguel in danger, even if her tone has turned understanding. Or in that case, maybe she doesn’t hate him, but pities him for what he’s implied about him and Kreese, which is so much worse. 

They pause at the doorway, both trying to come up with the least awkward way of saying goodbye. 

“Look, I care about Miguel,” Johnny forces out. “Like I care about Robby. Like he’s my own kid. I know you think I’m a bad influence, but I tried to look after him. But I get it, if you don’t want me around anymore. Trust me, I get it.” 

“I know you care about him,” Carmen says. She looks him straight in the eyes. “And that’s a hell of a lot more than I’ve learned to expect from most men. It means a lot to me – what you do for Miguel.” After the weight of a serious statement, Carmen gives him a mischievous smile that does a decent job of hiding the strain she’s under. “I’m sorry for slapping you, by the way.” 

Johnny grins, a little crookedly, and tries to ease the tension with humor. “You can slap me anytime you want.” 

She’s not saying anything. Her face is unreadable. 

Yeah, that did not go over well. And now he probably is going to hear that objectifying lecture. “Never mind,” he says quickly. “It was a stupid joke.” 

“Was it?”

“Yeah it was, okay? Stupid. Sorry,” he shoots out, defensive. He’s a fifty-year-old man and somehow she’s managing to make him feel embarrassed over a dumb, crude one-liner. She didn’t seem like a prude, but whatever. He gets it. He’s not with the times anymore, not that he cares. 

“No. Not _was it stupid?._ I meant, was it a joke?” 

And she’s standing too close to him. He can see her gulp. He can see her pupils washing out those dark brown irises, staring up at him. She smells good, that faint wisp of coconut shampoo, the coils of her ringlets falling to her shoulders, a visible impression where her hairband held it back for the twelve long hours of her shift. He doesn’t care that her mascara is smeared, or that she’s wearing scrubs and sneakers, or that the bags under her eyes prove she’s as weary and sleep-deprived as he is. He wants her. And he knows she wants him. He doesn’t know how she could, when he’s acted so weak, exposing his emotions and failures. But she does.

He closes the last inch between them, cups the base of her head in the palm of his hand, and leans into her. Before he can even finish leaning in to kiss her, she meets him there, and the door rattles as she wraps her arms around his shoulders and he steps off balance. When they stop to catch their breaths, an idiot grin spreads across his face, and he sees his own happiness reflected back in her. 

He tucks her hair behind her ear and leans in for another. He’s not thinking about how this will go over with Robby and Miguel. He’s not thinking about how uncomfortable it will be later, if Carmen decides this is a one-time thing. He’s not thinking about how he will probably ruin it. He’s not thinking about the consequences. He’s not thinking. 

It’s definitely not a joke, but it sure is stupid. There are worse things than being stupid, though. 


	12. Family Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Family night at the LaRusso house gains a few new members. Daniel’s POV, third person limited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for following this story. I appreciate every comment. It’s been a fun experience, and I’m sad it’s almost over. The last chapter will be posted next Wednesday, although there’s a good chance I’ll write a “Season 3” sequel.

 

 

“God, I can’t believe we have to do this,” Anthony whines. He throws his chest dramatically down on the dining table. 

“Well, you do,” Daniel says, voice firm.

“For once, I agree with Anthony,” Sam grumbles. She drops her chin into her palm. “Aisha wanted to go to the movies tonight. And I’m stuck here.” 

Amanda and Daniel exchange a look, and he knows his wife’s not up for it either, but she being a trooper. 

“Seriously Dad, Sunday family nights? What are we, Mormon?” Anthony says. “Next you’re going to be fitting us in magic underwear.” 

“Let’s just try it this once. That’s all I’m asking. If it’s horrible, we’ll go back to living as strangers in the same house.” 

_Dramatic,_ Sam mouths to Amanda and he sees Amanda nod at their daughter. 

Alexa is off, every family member’s phone is in a fruit bowl on top of the fridge, out of reach and on vibrate. 

Daniel heads over to the kitchen counter and scoops out the homemade ice cream from the ice cream maker. It’s chocolate chip pistachio, which he thinks, after secretly observing his son these past few days, are some of Anthony’s favorite flavors. It’s honestly hard to guess Anthony’s favorite foods, since he eats everything indiscriminately. 

He’s had too little time for his family since opening Miyagi-do, and Anthony’s got the brunt of it. At least Amanda is with him at work, and Sam is with him at the dojo. On Monday, when Anthony’d sarcastically pretended not to know who he was, Daniel had realized that he was falling into the same old schema of putting Anthony on the back-burner. Because it was easier, because his son has always been so damn difficult, because a thousand other things needed to be addressed, because Anthony would finally shut up when he played his video games. He’s an obnoxious, entitled, spoiled brat. And a kid doesn’t get like that without a parent’s contribution. Or in Daniel’s case, a lack of contribution. 

So Sunday evenings are family nights. Even if not a single one of them wants to be there. Including himself. 

He starts scooping out bowls of ice cream for everyone while Amanda is reading the instructions to the board game, her eyebrow cocked in ironic amusement. He’s lucky she’s humoring him. 

“ _Mice and Mystics_. That sounds stupid,” Anthony says. He tosses a die up and down in his hand. 

“It’s a role-playing game,” Daniel says as he drops the bowl of ice cream in front of his son. “You like role-playing games.” 

“Yeah, online.” Anthony shovels a huge scoop into his mouth, and it’s kind of grotesque. “Hey Dad, this is surprisingly not horrible,” he says with his mouth full. 

“Gee, thanks,” Daniel answers, rolling his eyes. 

But then a second later, “Wait, did you make this because pistachio’s my favorite? I didn’t know you knew.” 

And Daniel doesn’t know whether he’s ashamed of his past failures, or proud of his recent effort. Probably ashamed. He’s always known Samantha’s favorites. And he’s always made a point of making them for her. He’s going to do better now. “Of course I knew, buddy,” Daniel lies. 

Anthony shrugs and downs another scoop. 

Amanda starts explaining the rules and Sam is setting up the board. Anthony is playing with two of the mice figurines, and Daniel is fairly sure his eleven-year-old son is putting them inappropriate poses, 69ing the mice right there at the table. “Hey, I want to be the bad-ass thief mouse,” Anthony interrupts as Amanda goes over the character descriptions. 

“I wanted to be thief,” Samantha complains. 

“I called it first!”

“Are you two _kidding_ me?” Amanda says, slamming down the rule book. “Sam, you’re seventeen. It’s a board game with _mice_.” 

Sam at least looks shamefaced. “Fine,” she says. “I’ll be the healer, Tilda or whatever.” 

“Obviously your father is the wise, magical Gandalf mouse,” Amanda says. 

“Thanks, sweetie,” Daniel says, smugly. He takes a bite of ice cream. “I’m glad you recognize the ancient wisdom and sacred traditions I’m passing down.” He says it sardonically, but he kind of means it, too. 

“Oh, don’t thank me. I just said that because you’re old,” Amanda teases. 

 

o - o - o - o - o 

 

They’re hilariously awful at the game. They keep forgetting the rules, and arguing over them, and it’s been an hour and the cockroaches keep defeating them and they haven’t gotten past the first chapter. They’re actually having fun. To the surprise of them all. Daniel doesn’t have to use his stern voice once, which is good, because he sucks at it. (Admittedly, he’s getting better at it.) Sam and Anthony are clashing their figures together, pretending they’re in the midst of a light saber fight when a sharp pounding shakes the front door. 

“Seriously?” Daniel groans. 

“I’ll get it,” Amanda says. 

“It’s okay, I got it.” Daniel’s knees actually hurt when he gets up – he’s really getting old, isn’t he? – and he makes his way to the front door begrudgingly. If it’s another Jehovah's Witness or a political canvasser, Mr. Miyagi is going to be _very_ disappointed in how he’s about to use his karate. 

“Johnny?” Daniel says. And this can’t mean anything good, him showing up like this again, looking drained. At least he can’t smell alcohol on him. “What are you doing here? You couldn’t have called first?” he asks as he opens the door, even though that’s probably not a terribly considerate thing to say. 

“I called ten times,” Johnny snaps. “Then Robby called Sam and Amanda and nobody answered.” And then Daniel remembers the phones on top of the fridge, and the Motown they’d started blaring halfway through the game. There’s no way they’d hear a vibrate. Johnny doesn’t give him time to explain though. “Robby started getting all worried so here we are – you know kids these days, with their dyslexic anxiety or whatever.”

“ _Robby_ was worried, huh?” Daniel says with a lifted eyebrow. 

“This is more of an in-person sorta conversation, anyway, so it’s good we dropped in on our way to uh…dinner,” Johnny answers, carefully skirting Daniel’s attempt at getting him to admit an iota of concern. “Glad to see you’re not dead.” 

“Coming from you, that’s practically a compliment.” Daniel smirks. And by his shifty-eyed stance, there was absolutely no way Johnny was on his way to dinner. Johnny Lawrence was actually worried about him. The world is a strange place indeed.

“We’re having a family night. Cell phones are off.” 

Johnny’s mouth curls into a grin. “Family night? What a bunch of dorks.” 

“Do you want to come in?” 

“The boys are in the car, and I don’t want to interrupt,” Johnny says. “But the reason I was calling… Kreese is gone. For good. I thought you should know. He left town last night.” Johnny pulls his hand through his hair. Instinctually, Daniel checks it. His knuckles are untouched. So he didn’t beat the man out of town. 

“So, uh…I’m gonna go. Have fun with your kids.” Johnny turns to leave, as if he didn’t just give Daniel life-altering good news, and Daniel grabs his arm. 

“Wait!” Daniel exclaims. “Hold up. How is that possible? Are you sure he’s gone? For good?” 

Johnny nods. “For good.” 

Daniel’s mind is churning with flashing images of the man who turned vulnerable kids into menacing bullies, who manipulated him against Mr. Miyagi and psychologically screwed him up just to get revenge over a trophy. The man Johnny used to idolize, the man who choked out his star pupil over second place. He thinks about his past, and he thinks about the kids in the Valley and he’s overwhelmed with relief. 

Daniel may have looked wimpy growing up, but he always had to come up to bat, always had to face his enemies head on to feel any sense of closure. He never shied away from conflict, even the fights he couldn’t win. And as much as he still wants to punch the lights of Kreese, as much as he wants to be (and expected to be) the champion in another bad guy show-down, now that it’s over, he’s okay with the fact it never came to that. More than okay. For the first time, Daniel doesn’t feel the need to be the hero. He’s just glad the man’s gone. He’s glad that he can find some peace. That Johnny can find some peace. 

Maybe this is what Mr. Miyagi was trying to teach him all along. 

Daniel tries to gather his thoughts, control the surge of surprise and joy that’s telling him to pull Johnny into a hug. Fuck it. He throws his arms around Johnny anyway. “That’s great, man. That’s great.” 

Johnny pats his back awkwardly and pulls out of the hug. “Yeah, it was crazy. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow.” 

“No. No way. Tell the boys to come in. Honey!” Daniel calls behind his shoulder. “We’ve got company!” 

Johnny shrugs, even though Daniel can tell he wants to come in, and waves his hand to the boys in the car. As Robby and Miguel make their way to front door, Daniel cringes. “Christ. He fought Hawk, didn’t he?” 

“That stubborn idiot doesn’t listen,” Johnny groans, but Daniel can hear the affection beneath the annoyance. 

Miguel looks worse the closer up he gets. And Daniel can’t help but flicker through more flashbacks to his own teenage years – the boy in the secondhand clothes, the kid from the wrong side of the block with the wrong accent and wrong skin tone. Miguel’s eyes shift nervously from Johnny to Daniel, and Daniel puts a hand on his shoulder. “Kid, you’ve gotta stop showing up to my house looking like this.” 

Miguel quirks his mouth up in something that’s almost a smile. “I’ll try not to bleed out on your sofa this time.” 

Daniel squeezes his shoulder and pulls him in to a tentative half-hug, and surprisingly, Miguel accepts it. “You gotta take better care of yourself. Now get on in there and eat some ice cream,” he says as he shoves Miguel through the door. 

Robby tucks his hair behind his ear, shy and embarrassed. Halting the affection he’s grown to show him whenever his father’s in sight. “Hey, Mr. LaRusso.” 

“Please tell me you didn’t have anything to do with this, did you Robby?” Daniel asks, Jersey accent coming out full force at the start of a parental scolding. 

“I saved the day,” Robby jokes. “If by saving the day you mean calling my dad to come save our asses.” 

“Come here.” Daniel opens up his arms, in the warm, easy-going affection that comes naturally to him, and that Robby’s used to be so resistant to in the beginning. After a moment’s hesitation, the boy steps into his arms and squeezes him back, and it strikes Daniel as odd that it doesn’t strike him as odd that he’s just hugged Johnny Lawrence, his prized student, and his son back to back. That they’re joining the LaRussos for family night. That in some odd twist of fate, the word family isn’t too much of stretch. 

Amanda enters the room and skids to a halt, taking in Miguel’s face in horror. “Is that kid’s nose broken?” 

“Oh, don’t worry,” Johnny says as he wrestles Miguel’s hair and shoves past him into the house. He doesn’t bother to take his shoes off. “I popped it back into place last night.” 

 

o - o - o - o - o

 

Daniel’s leaning against the countertop, watching over everyone as he waits for the kettle to whistle. He’s already taken out the tins of matcha powder, loose-leaf rooibos for Amanda, and English Breakfast for Johnny. He can’t imagine Johnny drinking tea, but he’d shrugged his shoulders when Daniel offered. 

Robby’s playing _Fortnite_ with Anthony, and it warms Daniel to see how well they’re finally getting along. They’re leaning in toward the TV as if they were engaged in real-life action and shooting insults at each other over their shoulders, which Daniel instinctually wants to correct, but they seem to be having a good time with it, insults and all. Robby’s a good kid, seventeen years old and taking the time out to play with a chubby middle schooler. 

Johnny and Amanda are hanging out at the dining table, which still bears the ruins of the board game. He doesn’t know what they’re talking about, but Amanda is laughing and rolling her eyes, so Johnny has probably said something so absurdly bigoted and out of touch that there’s nothing you can really do but laugh. 

He’s not pleased about Samantha and Miguel, off in their own little corner, Miguel perched up on the arm of an easy chair, Sam leaning on the wall beside him. They’re talking quietly to themselves, and he doesn’t approve of the way they’re looking at each other, like they’re the only people in the room. She reaches out a hand to trace the blue bruise spreading from the center of his face and the now slightly crooked bridge of his nose. 

He can’t believe that boy took his daughter to Golf n’ Stuff, it’s too surreal. What were the odds that Miguel would take his daughter exactly where he took Ali all those years ago? Only two months ago, Daniel would’ve forbidden Sam to even speak to Miguel, but now… He’s not happy about it. But he wouldn’t be happy about any guy looking at his little girl like that. Johnny’s updated him on what’s going on at Miguel’s home, and the kid has it rough. Daniel was too much of a hothead himself for meditation in the beginning, so he can overlook that hiccup. Miguel’s okay. 

Daniel takes the kettle off the burner and pours the tea. At the comforting scent of matcha, there’s a small pang of grief that Mr. Miyagi isn’t here to see this. He feels like he’s come so far in such a short amount of time. He’d been so wrapped up in his business, in his obsession with finances and success, that he’d forgotten about the importance of the small things – hanging out with his wife and kids on the weekend, the casual comfort of friends stopping by uninvited. He carries the cups over to the table and takes a seat.

Johnny takes a gulp and makes a face. 

“I offered you an espresso instead, you know.” 

“This is fine,” Johnny says. “I’m taking etiquette lessons from Amanda.” He pokes out his pinky and Daniel chuckles. 

“I’m not sure I make the best Miss Manners,” Amanda says. “I’ve been known to add tequila to my tea.” 

Watching his wife and his former rival/ enemy/ current business partner/ friend-thing banter, Daniel’s relief is palpable. He’s drawn away from the moment by the sheer overwhelming sense of contentment. He hadn’t realized it, but in these past few years, an underlying sense of doom had been creeping up on him, a feeling that’d never fully surfaced because he’d kept himself so busy. Underneath his salesmanship and his cheery smile and his constant pushing for more out of life, was a fear the world would hurt his kids, that everything he’d built would fall apart. 

Truth is, the world’s still as brutal as it’s always been, even with Kreese out of the picture. This one small win doesn’t make the existential dread of parenthood disappear. It doesn’t save the planet. But it renews Daniel’s faith anyway. He _can_ make the world a better place. Even if it’s just in his household, in his dojo, in the Valley. 

There’s a shout from the other end of the room and Daniel tenses. Already, something has happened to destroy his brief moment of peace. He turns, and sees the shouting is Miguel on his phone, speaking fast in Spanish and gesturing dramatically. The boy rushes to his feet and jumps up and down as he screams, his fragile condition forgotten. And the relief returns, because it’s not a shout of pain or danger, it’s a shout of victory. Some private victory Daniel knows nothing about. Miguel clicks the phone off and says something quietly to Daniel’s daughter. She wraps her arms around him and they’re celebrating together. 

Johnny’s standing up, pushing his chair back with the back of his knees. Miguel sees his sensei move toward him from over Sam’s shoulder. Tears of joy are streaming down his cheeks. He shouts something to Johnny – Daniel doesn’t even think the kid knows he’s still speaking Spanish, he’s so overcome, but Johnny seems to get it, and runs to the boy. 

Daniel, as removed as he is from the situation, feels a vicarious joy at another victory. It doesn’t matter that the victory isn’t his. What matters is that Johnny pulls Miguel into an embrace, lifting the kid off his feet (which has to hurt, considering the state he’s in). What matters is his daughter catches him looking at her, and instead of shooting him a frustrated glare, she smiles, and her eyes crinkle, so he knows it’s real. What matters is that Robby and Anthony have abandoned the controllers and are roughhousing, and Anthony’s laughing at the top of his lungs as Robby demonstrates over-dramatic karate moves and they knock over the papasan chair. What matters is Amanda takes his hand under the table and moves it onto her lap, giving it a gentle squeeze. They’re both wisecrackers, so sarcastic with each other that sometimes they forget the importance of tender moments that require no irony. 

Daniel puts his arm around Amanda, and everything is right with the world. Or at least, everything is right with his world. And that’s enough. 


End file.
